


Ours Is the Iniquitous

by FilthyWeebTrash, memes



Series: Ours Is [1]
Category: RWBY, Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Angst, Chaos, Combat, Corruption, Crossover, Hate, Murder, Rage, Terrible Horrible and Horrificly Flawed People
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 19:46:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 61,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14339676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FilthyWeebTrash/pseuds/FilthyWeebTrash, https://archiveofourown.org/users/memes/pseuds/memes
Summary: Without the Dark, there can be no Light,We have purposeWithout the Lie, there can be no Truth,We have purposeWithout the War, there can be no Victory,We have purposeWithout the Death, there can be no sacrifice,We have purposeWithout the Hope there can be no Future,We have purposeWithout the Loyalty there can be no one chapter,We have purposeWithout the Emperor, there is nothing,...And we would have no purpose





	Ours Is the Iniquitous

_Ours is the Iniquitous._

_Step One._

 

It is a fruitless venture, but he does so again anyway. The screen lights up, a silent hum runs through the machine as its spirits awaken only to tell him what he already knows.

 

He is lost.

 

He puts the Auspex away, it fits snugly into its pouch and he mutters a prayer of thanks to the techno-arcana for its service, no matter how underwhelming.

 

“ _Well?”_ The static laced voice that cut through his self-imposed calm was filled with a sort of arrogance that managed to irk even his normally serene demeanor. It drove him to speaking.

 

“Nothing.” He answered- _patience_ \- he counseled himself, he did not live to serve this long without it. “The day is young. Our fortunes will change.”

 

 _“It is that exact facet of information that worries me,”_ The voice came again, grating and irritating. “ _The_ Day _is young,”_ It spat out each word like it was a personal offense. “ _I clearly recall it being_ Night _._ ”

 

_Patience…_

 

“It was night. It is now day. We press on.” He stated, pressing further into the forest, he noticed only the Irritants’ footfalls.

 

“Scout Master Yenald, Sire,” A younger voice called to him, this one clarion and humble. He paused, and turned around.

 

Votar has always been the most expressive of initiates. That fact did not change now with his elevation to the rank of Scout. His young face shown marked concern even under the heavy smears of ash. It was his eyes that told him this, bright blue orbs that stared at him with a weight that spoke of his doubts.

 

“What troubles you?” He asked.

 

 _“This pointless march you lead us on, doubtlessly.”_ The red and silver goliath answered for young Votar. _“We should turn back while we can.”_ Continued the Irritant.

 

_Patience…_

 

The Irritants name is Aranak. An Assault Marine who has proven himself to be as brash and harsh as his armors red and silver in the short time he has been with them. It was such behavior that has earned him the title of Irritant in his mind.

 

Votar continued despite the interruption. “We have been walking this path for several hours.” The Scout Marine gestured around them with his shotgun, the brutish shape and dulled silver grey of the weapon seemed red and muddy in the sickly saccharine ambiance of the crimson forest. It was a sharp contrast to the piggish short-barreled stalker bolter that he himself held. “We have not seen any signs of Imperial presence, nor any traces of life that could point us towards it.” Votar removed his combead and rolled it in his fingers. “There has been no change in vox signals either- just empty silence on all channels.”

 

“What do you suggest?” Yenald asked, allowing his former initiate a moment of thought, he removed the Auspex once again, and with a muttered prayer to its spirits, he activated it, and again found nothing. He returned it to its pouch with a departing prayer of thanks.

 

“Perhaps it would be prudent to turn back. The Guard were in possession of higher gain Vox casters. They may provide a better chance of contacting an outside source.”

 

 _“At last, another voice of reason!_ ” Barked the Assault Marine with his arms folded.

 

Yenald ignored the Irritant once again. “Incorrect.” He spoke to Votar, who listened with quiet intensity. “That is unwise.”

 

“ _You speak of wisdom yet possess none of it…”_ Growled Aranak. “ _We must return.”_

 

Yenald shook his head, a frown showed his disappointment. He would at least think the Assault Marine to be in possession of even the smallest modicum of sense. “We must not.”

 

 _“If you will not, then I will!”_ Votar winced as the Marine erupted into shouting, his vox amplified voice stirring the nettles on the crimson colored pines. He did not flinch out of surprise or discomfort but out of worry that such a tantrum would draw the attention of those they would do best to avoid. “ _I will not leave my fallen brothers unguarded!”_

 

 _‘So it is that,’_ Yenald thought to himself, a sad smile creeping across his face even as he shook his head. ‘ _He mourns, and it feeds his anger.’_ Even if he now understood the assault marines’ rage he could not allow it. “If you go back.” He looked to the sky through breaks in the red canopy. “You will die.”

 

“ _You speak lies,”_ Yenald did not move as Aranak approached him, boots digging into the soft dirt. He did however move his finger inside the guard of his weapon. “ _If you wish to rot in this fetid forest than do so, do not drag me along with you, you backwater tribal!”_

 

Patience was not as set in Votar as it was in Yenald, “You will rescind such words!” Votar seethed, racking the slide on his shotgun and kicking off the safety.

 

“Votar. Where is your truth.” Yenald asked, looking over at the Scout Marine, he could see the fire in the scout’s eyes at the slur. He too had felt a flicker of anger pass through him before it was quenched. Votar steadied himself, a harsh intake of breath and lengthy exhale saw him back down. “In the heart of the sun…” Votar answered back.

 

“Good.” Yenald nodded, and turned his attention to Aranak. When he spoke he roused steel in his voice. “Our cult is sacred. No further remarks on it.” Aranak said nothing in return, “Do you remember the chapel?” Yenald continued.

 

“ _I remember fire, and the blood of traitors upon my sword.”_

 

“Do you remember its coldness?”

 

_“Where do you intend to go with this, Descendant?”_

“Do you remember its coldness?” Yenald spoke again- _Patience…_

_“I remember a bite to the air, yes.”_ Aranak relented at last, pitched blue lenses staring down at the Marine before him. Yenald could feel the marines’ impatience. _“It was a cursed place that blighted the soul.”_

 

“Do you feel it now?” Yenald asked. “That bite?”

 

“ _Of course not!”_ Aranak shouted again, several leaves fell from their branches.

 

“When did you last feel it?”

 

Aranak seethed aloud, turning in place and pacing. His hands fell to his chainsword and bolt pistol out of habit before he arrested the motion. “ _It lessened at the death of the sorcerer.”_ He answered. “ _But faded when we were clear of the chapel by a Rocs’ mile.”_

 

“That cold is the bite of corruption. The breath of the Arch Enemy.”

 

 _“What of it,”_ Aranak paused his pacing at the mention of the vilest of mankind’s foes. “ _We slew the foul heretic that conjured it.”_

 

“The Sorcerer wielded foul powers. Those powers sent us here. They lingered after his demise. They corrupted.”

 

_“Do not speak in tongues, Scout! Answer me plainly!”_

 

“The ruins we left behind are lost to corruption.”

 

_“Then all the more reason for me to reclaim my fallen brothers.”_

Votar spoke for his commander, as he now saw what folly returning would be. “Without a soul to burn away impurity, the body is but flesh.” He looked back the way they came. “There is nothing to return for, brother.”

 

“ _You are no brother of mine.”_ Aranak snapped, “ _My Brothers are- were, pure of heart, no corruption could take hold of them!”_

 

“That may be true. They are dead now. Their hearts have joined Him. The body is left behind.” Yenald wanted Aranak to see reason, needed him to. Yenald was a veteran of many crusades and campaigns. He knew what the corruption of the Archenemy could do to a mind fraught with uncertainty and despair. “The Forest has claimed them.”

 

 _“…”_ Aranak held the tension within him for a moment more. He let it leave him; his shoulders slumped as a resignation came over him, the weight of it. He seems smaller without the fire of anger ignited within. “ _Then what must we do?”_

 

Yenald looked to the sky, he could see an orange tint on the clouds. “Day will fade soon.” He told them. “We must continue. The Forest will not welcome us at night.” Yenald imagined that Anarak muttered something beneath his helmet, most likely about his and Votars’ chapter cult. Yenald said nothing of it.

 

…

 

There was a haze in the air. It fell over their vision like a fog the color of bloody-mist. Aranak commented that such a sight was an omen of Ill-fortune. _“What holds the visage of blood often calls to blood.”_ He muttered.

 

“This truly is an evil forest.” Said Votar, he gazed with an intense animosity at the surrounding foliage. The low hanging branches were rife with curling leaves that were a dark rosy hue, and the bark of the branches was like the color of a dried bloody scab. “The Druids would have this place turned to ash.” Votar reached out and peeled back a strip of bark. It was rough and flaked apart in his hand.

 

“The tree bleeds.” Yenald commented. From where Votar removed bark, now flowed a sluggish trickle of crimson sap, they were all too reminded of an open wound. Votar reached out, running a finger through the trail it came away with a string of red. He turned and looked questioningly at Yenald who said nothing in return. “ _How much death must curse a forest for its trees to exude the blood of those slain?”_ Aranak questioned without mirth.

 

“Too much,” Yenald answered.

 

“Brothers,” Votar stepped away from the tree with the bloody sap. A hum filled with air, growing in intensity. From around them, from the trees they came.

 

They were nearly six inches in length; with a wingspan nearly double that. Votar made out gnashing mandibles and thorny exoskeletons. It was the stinger that were the most prominent, a tapered needle longer then the body of the insects that bore them.

 

 _“What manner of creature are they?”_ Aranak asked, regarding the press of insects with a mix of bemusement and disinterest. He easily swatted away one that strayed near him, the crumpled bug fell to the ground, twitching and crushed, he looked at the blackish ichor on his gauntlet with mild distaste.

 

“Hellwasps perhaps?” Yenald observed, “Servants of the forest, regardless.”

 

Votar watched one hornet land on his hand; skittering down over his fingers he watched it scrape at his skin, pulling the sap residue from his stained finger until it was clean. He did not move, watching the length of sharpened exoskeleton that doubtlessly contained a painful sting- albeit, it was of no threat to him. Its task done, it spread its gossamer wings, and flew away. “The sap.” He stated, watching the mass of writhing red and black bodies that clustered over the tree.

 

 _“It must have high nutritional properties, or something of the sort, regardless it is irrelevant.”_ Aranak announced, his hand darted out and plucked one of the wasps from the air, he held it between two fingers capable of crushing hardened plasteel with frightful ease. It squirmed in his grip; the stinger waggled fitfully, a clear liquid dripped from its end.

 

“We must go.” Yenald checked the sky again through breaks in the canopy, “Dark comes.”

 

Following after Yenald, Aranak crushed the wasp in his hand, and followed after, casting a glance back at the swarming ball. He saw several break off and skirt around the two broken wasps. Without warning they lunged forwards, and tore apart the corpses.

 

…

 

“The stars have changed.” Yenald said at long last. The worlds fell from his mouth but it did not appear as if the others were willing to hear them.

 

“I had suspected as much.” Votar said, Aranak grunted in acknowledgment. He had ruminated on the same conclusion, weighing practicals and theoretical's. The warp had been involved, and where it emerges, all constants are thrown to the wind.

 

“We are not on the same planet we were before.”

 

_“I realized as much. You needn’t remind me.”_

 

“We are most likely presumed dead.”

 

_“The Emperor knows we live. That is what matters.”_

 

Silence ruled the moment, the trudge of feet the only sound breaking it. A bird hopped from branch to branch. It colors were dulcet reds, just like everything in the strange forest. Yenald watched it for a moment; Votar ran a hand over the inscriptions of his shotgun. Aranak felt the etched relief of a skull on his chainswords pommel.

 

“There,” Yenald stops, head cocked to the side, listening. “Do you hear it?”

 

Votar is at his side, eyes narrowed as he focuses his Gene-hanced hearing. “Almost.” He says. He cups a hand behind his left ear, “Yes, there it is.”

 

Aranak looks between both of them, but deems not to remove his helmet; he filters through the ambient silence of the forest. _“Hear it?”_ He snorts. _“I can feel it now.”_ He was not wrong, just below the surface they could feel the rumble. Something powerful came their way, shaking the trees.

 

“An engine.” Votar says, he looks to Yenald, “A vehicle.”

 

Yenald nods, but he keeps listening. “That is true.” He looks down, and pulls back the firing pin on his bolter. “But that was not what I was listening for.” He turns and faces the forest to his right. “They are.”

 

Red eyes, small, beady red eyes glare out from the dark woods of a dying evening.

…

 

The Bolter thudded in Yenalds grip. He is running and firing. Bolter braced against his shoulder, single shots smacking out mass-reactive shells with vindictive precision. The black beasts swerved through the trees, masking themselves behind foliage, but nothing could save them from the perdition of a Space Marine. Each shot cored through an eye or open mouth, cratering heads and stomach with callus ease.

 

The chamber clicked empty, and Yenald tore free the spent magazine and slammed home a fresh one. He didn’t bother bringing the stalker bolter to his shoulder- there was no time. The beasts were swarming out of the forest in a black wave of fangs, bones, and fur. There was no end to them; there was no breaking them. Aranak- for all his incorrigibleness- payed his due in the blood of beasts, his chainsword howled almost as loud as he, stripping muscle and flesh from every beast it tore through, his boltpistol was used just as much as a bludgeon as it was a handgun. Votar worked his shotgun furiously, he held down the trigger as he rocked the slide, slam-firing it again and again.

 

“We are losing ground.” Votar noted, he swung out with the stock of his weapon, the butt smashed into the bone-face of one of the lupine creatures, the force of the blow shattered its skull, crumpling its face and sending it flying back into the seething mas just beyond the dark of their muzzle flares.

 

**_Chud-Thish-Krak! Chud-Thish-Krak! Chud-Thish-Krak!_ **

 

The spent shells hissed in the cooling air. They curled the grass with their heat. The Bolter bucked steadily in his grip. Pulling the trigger, the round slammed out from the barrel, it spun in the air, and the gyrostabalized motor ignites. The round surges forwards, it streaks through the night like an enraged bolt of fire. It punches into the twisted being of fur and muscle; it forces bone and meat aside as it burrows into flesh. The mass reactive fuse triggers. The bolt round explodes. The beowolf is torn apart from the inside.

 

Yenald twists, he and his Initiates movement fluid in contrast to the sharp economical movements of Aranak. Votar slams the slide on his shotgun back and forth, the muzzle smokes and billows between bright bursts of flame. The _**Chud-Thish!**_ Of Aranak’s boltpistol breaks the night as he revs his chainblade, every beast that leaps at him is torn asunder, the visceral roar of his weapon biting into their forms and cutting down their lengths, leaving steaming bilious slop behind.

 

They are running; Aranak storms the front, Yenald and Votar at either side slightly behind. Together, they drive this wedge forwards. Aranak cuts and smashes his way through the forest, unbelievably fast; his weight crushes the undergrowth with every seismic step as he plows through trees. Yenald leaps over the debris that Anaraks charge leaves, he jumps, spins, twists his body around and lets loose another precise shot that catches the shadowy beast behind him and craters its head. He lands, he runs. They are running forwards through the night, unheeding and unthinking of what is pursuing them, knowing them only as a threat to be dealt with. There is no end to them.

 

 _“My ammunition will not last for much longer.”_ Aranak reports, his voice filters through their ears. _“I have three and a half magazines left.”_

 

“I face similar concerns.” Votar reports, he loads a shell into his shotgun, directly into the ejection port, the action takes less than half of a half-second, and he fires it just as quickly, its payload blowing out the brain of a stalking beast, he slips another shell from his pouch and repeats the process.

 

“ _Tracks_ ,” Aranak shouts, Yenald whips his head around, almost forgetting the beasts to his front as he backpedals over rough ground, blistering away with his bolter. “Where.” He shouts.

 

 _“Just up ahead, they cut through the forest.”_ Aranak smashes a beast out of mid air, the flat of his chainsword swinging back and pounding into the thing; he breaks its body with a single strike. _“Seismic monitoring also shows an approaching vehicle._ ” Shadowy lupine shapes snarled out with white masked faces and beady red eyes. Yenald fired again, a two round burst slammed down a beast in mid flight, its chest and stomach blowing open and spilling out guts and liquefied organs. He shifted his aim left, fast as a blink, and squeezed the trigger; he hears the soft click of a pin striking nothing.

 

It nearly cost him- the creature seethed and howled, propelling itself up and over its dead kin, claws outstretched, fangs glistening white- Yenald ducked under the beast, spinning as it sailed over him he let his Bolter drop, and his hands reached behind him, and grabbed cold adamantium.

 

A flash in the night- catching the distant lamps- nearly as long as Yenald was tall; the glistening silver pole swung out and around in Yenalds trained hands. One end connected solidly with the Beowolfs skull, cratering it at once. The length of adamantium was still moving; the other end jabbed out and stunned another, catching it just above the eye. Yenald twisted around, staff held out in both hands horizontal he ducked under another lunging beast that thought to prowl among the branches of the trees, it missed, and he punished it, stave cracking down over its back in a swift flick.

 

He danced, rolling the pole over his back he caught it in his opposite hand, twirling it he let it slip out to the end and with the extra length he pulled the stave up over his head and brought it down on the unsuspecting. Thorns caught around the staves end rip into flesh and fur, gnarled and dried brambles pulled apart bodies with jagged impunity, leaving bleeding lacerations with every strike- puncture wounds laced with hate.

 

Votar is at his commanders side, hammering away with his shotgun with relentless efficiency- his arm worked like a hydraulic piston, slamming and ejecting new shells every second even as his finger pulled the trigger, the kick biting into his shoulder with negligible effect on his aim. The swarm was too big to miss. Every beast that closed the distance through his hail of fire was crushed down with a swift strike from the underside of his shotgun, neck broken in a single blow. He would let nothing distract his commander from his Art.

 

Aranak is a whirlwind of unfettered devastation. Every move he made was with killing intent, and in this he mirrored the brutal nature of the Astartes, the pure purpose for which they were bred for- Killing. War. Murder. Destruction. Subjugation. Extermination and Annihilation. He lashed out with fist and blade, and foot and knee and helmet and elbow and arm. He pulverized bodies with blows that could knock an armored vehicle onto its side, he hacked through three of the things in a single roaring swipe of his blade, he sent an entire pack flying backwards with a charge, those he did not trample underfoot broke against trees and stones. He was tantamount to an ostracized apocalypse; there was no tact to his blows- just a killer’s rage, the rage of an apex predator, a Griffons Rage. Such was his chapters calling, and title.

 

Yenald spins as he swings; his stave crumbled a beast’s rib-cage and flung it into another charging lupine thing. He felt the rumble of an engine even louder now, it was muffled but there, his days of tracking had taught him to cancel out the ambiance of combat and leave only what his lymans ear desired.

 

He followed the sound of an engine- crude and human, proof of life. Human life.

 

“Brothers. We make for possible salvation.” Yenald ordered, his voice cutting cleanly through the myriad sounds of combat.

 

Aranak grunted, his vox laced snarl denoting his adversity to the title of Brother, his ties of loyalty were fierce. Votar was much more amiable, his acknowledgement was not even needed.

 

Yenald changed the course of his next strike mid swing, cutting the stave low and swiping the legs out from under a dark furred and masked beast, he sent it tumbling back into the rushing horde with a swift kick that he was sure to have cracked bones with. It bought him enough time as he turned and bolted, staff in both hands, Votar hot on his trail, Aranak stampeding after them, smashing through a tree and leaving its careening bulk to fall behind him, crushing Grimm and barring their path for a few more desperate seconds.

 

They ran hard, they ran fast, they smashed through thickets and ducked under branches, the beasts were everywhere. They fought a constant string of the faster lupine creatures as they ran; they terminated them on sight or trampled over them in the case of Aranak. The red parted around them, the trees thinning as they stumbled to a halt besides a railway line, tracks cutting through the forest and the acrid stains of black blood lining the track’s “Is this it?” Votar asked, hardly out of breath he racked the slide of his shotgun and thumbed in several shells to top off the tubular magazine. Aranak gunned the engine on his chainsword.

 

“It is. It will be.” Yenald answered, swapping back to his long barreled stalker bolter. Already the howls echoed out of the forest. _“They come.”_ Aranak answered their howls with the roar of his sword, its engine cycling up into a defiant shriek, blood flecked from its heavy tooth-like fangs.

 

The roar of the train was louder than both.

 

A blistering wail of thousands of tons of metal and cargo screaming down the rails at speed broke the ambiance of battle with the subtlety of a thunderclap. Yenald watched as it careened into view around a bend, a single powerful headlamp battering away the encroaching darkness, a black leviathan of a thing, the train drew cart after cart behind it. “Jump.” Yenald commanded. He sprinted after the speeding train; his pace matching it moments after it made the turn, and then it began to accelerate. Yenald jumped, his muscles propelling him into the air, he grabbed one of the many railings lining the cargo crates.

 

Votar was next, and Aranak last, his armor pushed him hard, made him fast, and he leapt into the air. He came crashing down against the side of one of the train compartments, he dug his hand into the side of one freight-box, his fist punching cleanly through and allowing him purchase. With them all aboard, Yenald looked out at the forest, he could see the red eyes and black shapes and white masks of the hateful creatures, and he scowled at them as they howled and roared at the escape of their prey. The train picked up speed, and thundered through the darkness of the night.

 

…

 

They did not sleep. Votar searched the train, climbing along the sides of the cargo containers lashed to the various cars until he found the forwards compartments and what appeared to be the passenger cars. He found no windows but several vehicular sized doors. He returned to Yenald and Aranak with his findings.

 

“The train appears to be automated, or under servitor control. I could find no answers; there are no Cog Mechanicum insignia.”

 

“Worrying.” Yenald answered.

 

 _“Their cargo makes no sense._ ” Aranak spoke for the first time in a long while, He stood, hand gripping a rail while he opened his clenched fist. The wind picked up what he held, a strange sandy powder that was slightly reddish. It had come loose when he grappled with a cargo container, its contents spilling out from the hole he punched in its side.

 

“Sand?” Votar mused; Aranak shook his head and tapped his helmet. _“Nay. It’s a chemical compound of some sort, its molecular structure matches no known substance in imperial records and it mimics a highly reactive energy storage capability.”_

 

“Anything more?” Yenald asked.

 

“ _Yes_.” Aranak let the rest blow away, shaking his gauntlet free of any residue. _“Highly unstable.”_ He thumped his fist against the white cargo container, _“In concentrated forms it could – and will, become volatile.”_

 

“I assume that shooting it would be unwise?” Votar asked,

 

Aranak nodded. “ _Extremely.”_

 

“Break in the woods.” Yenald announced, standing up and stepping over to the car rail. He looked out at the thinning red of the trees. The train emerges from the forest of red, Yenald stands, and looks out at a city.

 

“Civilization at last- praise be unto him.” Votar says. Staring out across green fields dotted with trees- green trees –marching up towards a town enclosed with walls of brick and mortar. The outskirts of the town gave rise to small, humble abodes that could be discerned as wooden constructs of varying quality. The further away from town center, the more ramshackle they appeared. There were several roads leading in and out of the town, but all lead to the center of the settlement, where constructs of iron and stone could be seen even from a distance.

 

“The train slows.” Yenald says, grasping a rail. He leaned over the rail and looked ahead, past the lead engine. There was a hooded station just past the walls of the town, he could see figures patrolling the walls and standing in watchtowers. He had yet to see any weapons.

 

“ _A backwater if I’ve ever seen one,”_ Aranak grunted, “ _though they must have some ties with the mechanicum if they are in possession of trains and electricity._ ”

 

“Not necessarily.” Votar objected, “Our home world of blessed Caltoria developed locomotives during Long Night, and has maintained the use of such things even after the introduction of the Machine cult. It may be the same here.”

 

“ _Caltoria is an astartes recruiting world. Of course the cog-priests would stay their hands from meddling in our affairs any more then they already do.”_

 

“You see it differently, Griffon?” Votar asked pointedly.

 

Aranak laughed, _“To the priests of Mars, humans are but ignorant children, and like children they are given only the simplest of toys to play with._ _They are terrible parents as well, they do not teach the children how to play, what to play with and what we must avoid; they simply take and hoard for themselves._ ”

 

“He is indeed correct.” Yenald spoke. “Something sinister is at work.”

 

…

 

Nelis had been working the Valden-Wood station for well over twenty years of his life. He had started as a crew-hand, scraping pitch from the platform and slicking the runners on cargo lifts when he was just a boy, it was good work and the pay helped his family get by during harsher times.

 

Now he was the stationmaster for the city, and he couldn’t hate it more.

 

When he was a crew-hand he didn’t have to stand around all day, watching trains file past every odd hour. He didn’t have to sit behind a desk and run through scroll after scroll of endless text concerning the shipping manifests of the next haul, making sure everything was in order and up to specifications.

 

He wiped sweat from his brow, drying his hand on his pant leg. It wasn’t hot out today- it was just him. He was out of shape, not fat yet, but definitely putting on the pounds, the trek to the station used to be a relaxing uphill stroll, now it was a grind and a half. Yet another reason why he hated this new gig. He shouldn’t have taken the promotion, but the money was good and he finally was making enough to move his parents out of the slums and into a proper house. He complained, undoubtedly so, but seeing his mother and father smiling again made it worth the monotony.

 

The train was just cresting out of the forest, and already his ‘boys’ were lined up, gloves on and helmets loose on their heads, ready to unload the various shipping containers. The shipment was a big one, a ‘Schnee’ shipment, and Nelis had express orders to get the cargo off as fast and safely as possible. Nelis snorted and spat. There was always something shady in whatever the Schnee Company did, and it always ended poorly for whoever decided to get involved without permission.

 

Nelis shaded his eyes and peered out at the approaching train, black and monolithic with a double-rail suspension. As it grew nearer, something caused him to look again. It was not supposed to be a passenger train. That was clear from the get-go, it was made to get from point A, to points B, C, D, and E, and then back to A in a diligent, orderly manner. Human crew took up space, and required living compartments along with provisions. They needed to be paid, they needed to sleep and eat and use the restroom. They were also a liability that could potentially endanger the contents of the shipping containers.

 

Thus, they were removed, and automated systems were put in place instead.

 

It did not make sense then, why the stationmaster could see three distinct figures upon that same train. He at first thought bandits and thought to go for the alarm, but there were only three, and if needs-be, the shooters in the watch towers could easily pick them off when the train came to a halt.

 

When they came into full view, Nelis realized that it might be a bit harder than that.

 

Two men and what could only be some primitive form of an Atlesian mech, maybe even a custom design. Eight feet tall and covered in more armor plating than what should be possible, the power requirements for moving something that looked so heavy must be immense.

 

The men were nothing to snort at, although less intimidating in comparison to the war machine standing behind them. They had guns; well-used pieces of equipment, bulky in design and both had dark capes. They wore dull colored armor that was rife with pouches and what seemed to be bullish round explosives. As the train came to a halt and ramps dropped down from the side of the train to allow the workers on board, there was a terse moment of unmoving silence. The workers stared up at the strangers, and they in turn looked back down at them.

 

They did not strike Nelis as brigands; they seemed too composed for that. There was an odd air about them, they came off as the victim of a cruel prank that involved spiriting away a sleeping man and letting him wake up in a strangers house in a different city in a different kingdom on a separate continent.

 

The stranger with the bulky scoped weapon and length of polished metal across his back shifted his weight, eyebrows furrowed, he seemed to be mulling over what exactly to say. He stepped forwards, and the station crew instinctively stepped back. Nelis didn’t blame them, the man was enormous, a slab of corded muscle, the scars running over his face and a crew-cut that screamed ‘military’ also did not foster charity.

 

The man spoke after a moment, “In dei nomine, princeps, salvete me adducere.”

Neils arched an eyebrow, looking to his crew for confirmation, and then back at the man again.

  _‘Foreigners. Great...’_ Nelis thought to himself, _‘This throws a wrench in things.’_ Nelis wasn’t an especially educated man, and when he glanced back at his ‘Boys’ he saw that they too weren’t exactly sure who it was that was standing before them, or where they came from. 

“Uh,” Nelis began coughing slightly, hitching his pants up and stepping forwards. “Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”  

The man who spoke blinked and regarded Nelis for what felt like an hour, ridged grey-blue eyes studying him before he turned to his compatriot who in turn shook his head, frowning. Nelis’ shoulders slumped.

He could only guess that Schnee hired out some foreign Mercs to guard this shipment, must be highly illicit or valuable, most likely both given their track record. It took time, but enough gesticulating managed to get the point across that they needed to step off of the train. It was a tense endeavor that saw to sweat trickling down Nelis’ face more than several times and not because of the heat alone, it was a great relief when the two armed men and their mech trudged down the ramp. In their absence, his boys stepped on, guiding crane cables to latch onto the shipping containers so they could be hoisted off and onto waiting flatbeds below.

* * *

 

They stood away from the train, near the edge of the platform overlooking the bustling town. It spread for a half of a mile or so around, fortified wooden walls along the outskirts, while further in were cottages and markets, heretic chapels and buildings of commerce. Wheeled ground-cars and cargo trucks rumbled over smooth-paved streets, and families walked down sidewalks. Yenald watched one such family walk just below the train station. He leaned over the edge slightly, a young boy, clutching his fathers hand looked skywards and saw him; he pulled on his fathers sleeve and pointed, Yenald smiled.  

 

“Did you make sense of that language?” Votar asked, watching the humans move along the rail-cars with a practiced efficiency that could only be admired. Clipping heavy hooks on the containers and swinging them out over the town where they were deftly lowered.  

 _“Nay,”_ Aranak rumbled.  

“It sounded like Lunar Runic.” Yenald opines as he pulls out his Auspex once more, he presses the rune of activation. “The accent is wrong. Too fast.” 

“This presents a problem,” Votar admits, “How do we expect to navigate this world when we can hardly understand its people?” 

“We will learn.”

 _"Do we really have the time to afford doing so?”_  

“We will make time.” 

“ _I will not partake in the learning of a Heretic Language.”_ Aranak snorted. He let his helmets snarling face glare at the train workers.  

“We may have little choice but to do so.” Votar said. “Taking to the streets and asking common folk about The Emperor, and the Imperium of Man until one of their folk understands us would otherwise be the only practical. So therefore it would seem that in this unenviable situation the _theoretical_ has become the _practical_.” Votar said. Yenald smiled, his Initiate had learned much.  “It should not take long, regardless, I have already broken down the basic sentence structure of the language. If I am correct, the pattern of speech does indeed connotation well with Lunar Runic.” 

“That is good-“ 

 

Thunder tore open the air.

 

It ripped away the tranquility of the town, and turned it into a cage of chaos. The Astartes trio saw one of the multi-story buildings at the village center go up in flames. Its glass windows shattered from the ground up as the telltale crack-boom of high explosives detonated on every floor, the building crumbled inwards, collapsing to the street and crushing several store fronts in the process, they could hear the screaming with ease.

 

“That was…” Votar began; Yenald silenced him with a wave. “Wait.” He snapped.

 

Another crack-boom, more flames, more smoke, several more buildings trembled and shook, bulging outwards and exploding violently as charges tore the supporting beams in half. The sounds of combat could be heard amongst the crescendo. The men behind them jump at the explosion and rush to the edge of the platform, leaning out over the railing, they babble in their alien tongue. Yenald can see the fear about them.

 

Figures move through the chaos, bright flashes erupt from the weapons they carry, they wear masks, slit eyes and red markings, they are shouting, screaming, raging. A round bounces off the street, ricocheting up towards the train platform. Yenald snaps his hand out- inhumanly quick, impossibly precise; he plucks the malformed round out of the air.

 

“Hard rounds. Stub weapons.” Yenald observes, turning the bullet over in his hand. In the distance several more buildings erupt, flames tearing them apart from the inside, casting them to the ground in a shadow of debris. Fire begins to catch on other structures, it begins to spread, Votar looks down below. He can see the masked figures, he can see the rifles and machine guns slung over their shoulders, he can see them pouring into the station lobby. He can hear gunfire below, he can hear screams, his lips part in an open grimace. “They are slaughtering them.”

 

Yenald drops the spent bullet, and he pulls his Bolt-gun free. “More trouble”

 

 _“Correction.”_ Aranak growls, he thumbs the activation rune to his chainsword, It’s teeth begin to spin. _“More Practice.”_

* * *

 

 

Seras Kyuli. Age, thirty-three, female, two kids, one deceased, the other missing and presumed dead after enrolling in a hunter academy and going on her first ‘hunt’.

 

Seras Kyuli. Rising star of the White Fang.

 

She wouldn’t call herself a hardliner like the rest of them. She never found it in herself to buy into all the rhetoric and fiery speeches. It just wasn’t her style, and heck- in all honesty she even flat-out disagreed with the way that White Fang operates. She would have turned a blind eye to their actions if they had just stuck to egging storefronts and institutions that turned away Faunus’, she may have even overlooked the odd fire-bombing or two- just to show that they were serious, no one had to get hurt.

 

It has gone too far now, its gone _way_ too far. The raids, the killings, the assassinations, its gotten way out of hand, and it wasn’t going to stop. She recognized all of this; that this was a perversion of what the White Fang represented- what it was supposed to represent. The White Fang she grew up with and joined was a peaceful institution, it was an open-armed place for Faunus _and_ humans to band together in a symbol of equality, a place to show that the people of Remnant could do it- that they could make it work out all right and live side-by-side.

 

That was all long gone. It was dead. It was rotting in the ground. It was being eaten by maggots that grew fat off the dead flesh of once noble ideas. It could never return, and she recognized this as well. There could never be peace between Human and Faunus, not after all they’ve done. Too much blood has been drawn, and after today it would only get worse. It could only ever get worse. It could only ever turn into an endless cycle of violence that kept perpetuating this brutality in increasing doses. Opium for the masses so that they might sleep.

 

She led her team into the train station and she pulled the trigger- one single long squeeze as she swept her machine gun back and forth across the lobby. Shell casings rattled to the ground and were joined by the bodies shredded before her. Smoke rose from her barrel as she emptied the last of the box mag into a ticket booth, she saw splatters of red against the back panel inside, spraying up from out of line of sight where the ticket teller had thought to hide.

 

She unclipped the spent box; she loaded another one in, feeding the belt into the chamber without needing to look. This wasn’t the first times she’s done this sort of thing.

 

She was glad for the mask, it kept the blood and grease and soot off her face.

 

“Check the restrooms, might be a few more in there.” Two of her squad peeled off, guns slung low and ready, fingers itching to pull the trigger.

 

“We going up?” The Fang’ behind her asked, racking the bolt on his rifle unnecessarily. She gestured for them to suit themselves; she needed to be down here to stop the train from leaving and rendering the whole point of this operation moot. The whole goal of this mission was to snatch and grab as much dust and leave the rest of the town in tatters as a show of force.

 

When was the last time she participated in a sit-down protest? Four years? Six? Seven?

 

She shouldered her gun and stepped over the bodies as her men made for the stairs, she tried not to look down to often, even when she blasted the lock off the door to the security room. She found it empty, a door leading out to the back swinging open; a fresh cup of coffee was still sitting at a desk.

 

She hoped he managed to get away.

 

She found the emergency lockdown lever easily enough, bright red and shielded by a flip case switch. She pulled it, and could hear the power drain from the tracks above and rambolts engage to lock any already docked trains in place.

 

She had a moment to herself now. She looked at the coffee- untouched. She tried it. It was good, sweet, not too bitter, she could remember having stuff like this in White Fang meetings in the early days, in local libraries and sympathetic café’s where the last person to come would have to pay the tab.

 

Those memories were why she still fought, they were why she fought so damn _hard_.

 

Hope.

 

Her tail scraped the ground behind her, and her ears twitched. Hope.

 

She could envision herself at the head of White Fang. An infamous warrior to Humans, a dark force that cannot be stopped, only held at bay and appeased.

 

A war-hero to the Faunus, a person they would follow unquestionably- hang on her every word and would die if she deemed it necessary.

 

Then she could stop the violence. She could make it all end with a snap of her fingers, there could be treaties and legislation, the appointment of Faunus officials into positions of power in order to make sure things didn’t regress, _there could be peace._

 

She would probably have to die for that to happen, hunted down and assassinated by those angry over her crimes, she knew that there would be- and already are- many.

 

That would be okay.

 

She would deserve it, she already does deserve it, hell she might even save them the effort and plug herself. She couldn’t be forgiven for what she has done; she wouldn’t allow herself to forgive herself, much less anyone else.

 

She was standing on too many bodies for that to happen.

 

Those bodies… she couldn’t stop now, she had many more to go if she were to reach her goal. She would stack them until she could grasp hold of it. A stairway of corpses. All of them of her own making. All for the sake of ‘peace.’

 

She glanced at the security monitors.

 

She looked in time to see Tykus get his head cut off by a massive, snarling chainsaw.

…

 

Yenald walks down the train station stairs, behind him is Votar, to his front is Aranak. He is already coated in a fresh layer of gore. Aranak regards the body that falls to the floor, an ugly ravaged stump of neck leaks arterial gore down the steps; its limbs twitch from the violent separation of its central nervous system. The head itself is crushed underneath the assault marines boot.

 

The screaming is certainly annoying, but Aranak moves to take care of its source. The panicking masked man backpedals down the stairway, one hand gripping the handrail for support, the other locked tight around the grip of his gun and finger squeezing the trigger. The bullets hose Aranak, sparking and pinging off his armor without so much as scratching the paint.

 

The Assault Marine appears almost sympathetic towards the mortal before him, but it doesn’t stop him from lazily sweeping his blade through the air and separating his head from his shoulders. Another body falls to the ground among shells and flattened bullets. “ _This irritates me._ ” Aranak snarls. His boots crack the final step with an abrupt stomp. He glances both left and right, looking at the carnage with obvious disinterest. A rioting maelstrom of flames and screams is consuming the town outside, in mere minutes it is likely that there would be nothing left to it aside from ash and corpses. The marines had seen it happen so many times before, more often than not, they were the perpetrators of such apoplectic genocide.

 

Yenald stoops down to examine the head of the masked attacker that Aranak had killed. He grabs it by the hair, blood leaks from the severed stump of its neck, along with a protrusion of the spinal column.

 

 _“We have no time to play with corpses, Scout.”_ Aranak turns over one of the slaughtered civilians with his boot, the look of panic is fresh on her face, and it makes him want to retch. He cannot stand mortal humans and their countless failings. “ _This place is worthless and offers no method of contact with the Imperium. Let the chaff quarrel amongst themselves.”_ He kicks the body away; it impacts limply against the wall.

 

Votar makes no move to stop the Assault marine but his twin hearts beat that much faster and his grip on his shotgun tightens. He continues to nurture an intense loathing towards this callus red and silver giant.

 

“Not all of this ‘chaff’ is human.” Yenald pries the mask off; observant of how it mimics the creatures they fought in the red forest. Underneath is abomination. Aranak turns and snarls in disgust, Votar closes his eyes. Yenald holds a head in his hands; it is human save for the snake’s fangs that hang from its open mouth, and the scales that fleck its skin.

* * *

 

White Fang. A name spoken in hushed whispers among the people of Remnant, it is also spoken in anger and hate. Extremists, terrorists, revolutionaries, they are all these things. They have blood on their hands. They have buckets of it at their feet. They are far from finished spilling it in the name of their cause. They are illusive, and methodical, they cover their tracks, they hold tight to their methods.

 

They are well funded, and well supplied, they have access to all manner of weaponry and their resources seem almost unlimited. Their ranks grow every day, their numbers bolstered by a shifting tide and uncaring governments. They are the victims, they are the oppressed. They will bring about a new era, one that seats the Faunus at the head of the table. That day is still yet far away. It is a pathway paved in bodies. This rural town will provide a portion of those bodies this day.

 

Chaos rules the streets, explosions wrack the city. Bombs send bits and pieces of roofing and metal and remains of innocents into the sky, showering back down like an anarchists rainstorm. Amidst it all, there is the Fang, the White Fang, they storm the streets, blades and rifles held in white knuckled grips, copper casings sprinkle the street with every pull of the trigger, and with every swing of the blade bodies hit the ground- pure flesh and blood humans struck down with wild fire. It is a slaughter.

 

 _“SUFFER NOT THE MUTANT TO LIVE!”_ Blood slickens a street already running red with the stuff, the carnage is interrupted by the howl of a whirling blade cutting through flesh and sundering muscle and bone. A white fang soldier falls to the ground, mangled beyond all recognition, standing before the still bleeding corpse is a titan in red and silver armor trimmed with yellow, gore stains its front, its helmet is twisted into a vicious snarl. Bullets spang off its warplate, it regards the aggressors with unbidden scorn. With one hand it hefts a bulky pistol, it pulls the trigger twice, two masked men come apart in an explosion of organs, intestines trailing across the street.

 

The giant advances away from the train station.

 

“More coming up the street, just around the corner.” Votar announces; he racks the slide of his Shotgun, expelling a spent shell. Yenald nods, sighting down his Stalker Bolter, he pulls the trigger, a single bolt round screams out of the barrel and ignites, the mass reactive shell catches the first masked mutant just as he rounds the turn, the bolt punches through his face, into his brain- and detonates, metal fragments and bits of bone and blood add to the spread, the concussive force of a forty-millimeter explosive going off in such close proximity is enough to floor the rest of the squad even before they were around the bend. This is all that Aranak needs in order to close.

 

He is upon them like a beast among rabbits. He crushes the skulls of two before they can stand, pulverizes a third with a point blank bolt round that punches through and detonates inside the fourth. He decapitates the fifth and sixth with a single swipe form his chainsword. He snarls fiercely through his grill helm, unsatisfied with this offering of blood and thunder. “There is still yet more, Griffon.” Votar snaps “Do not lose yourself to your hunger just yet.”

 

“Separate.” Yenald orders. “Cover more ground. Clear this quicker. Votar: the east. I shall clear west. Aranak, do as you wilt.”

…

 

Votar came across the first group of masked rebels a minute after separating. There are seven of them, and they are stringing a corpse up to a lamppost. A rope had been tied about the neck of the body; it dangled limp and bloody from stab wounds as they hoisted it into the air. The masks cackled at the sight, some step forward and jabbed at the body with the barrels of their weapons, swinging it back and forth, batting it away as they stood in a circle around it.

 

It is enough to make a man sick.

 

Votar is not a normal man.

 

He is an Astartes, a Scout Marine freshly inducted into the Tenth Company from the ranks of Initiates. This display of cruel savagery does not give him pause; it only serves to stoke his rage. This is sacrilege, and he must tend to it. He advanced from the ruins of the building warped by fire. A sharp whistle drew the attention of the masked mutants. They shouted something at him in their perplexing language, he replied with a succinct pull of the trigger. The spread of buckshot tore away two of the mutant’s masked faces. Six remained.  


They attacked. Votar put a spread into the front, heavy plasteel pellets cut through knees and shins, tearing through muscle and bone alike. They fell screaming, and Votar chambered and fired again, he was moving swiftly now, finger holding down the trigger, slamming shell after shell against a primed firing pin. He twitched- a bullet whizzed past his head, he dodged two more, and then he was amongst them. He wielded his shotgun like a staff- like how Yenald used his. Slamming its butt into skulls, jabbing with its brutish muzzle. Bringing its stock down on necks and backs. Bones broke, skulls fractured, pulped lungs and bursts stomachs were vomited up in great heaving coughs.

 

He twisted; ducking low and lazily swinging under a sword stroke, he caught one of the masked aggressors in the gut with a swift swipe of his scatterguns stock. The mutant doubled over from the blow, his mask came off to reveal a confused, and afraid, Abhuman face. Blood leaked from their mouth as they fell. The mutant stared up at Votar; he stood over them, impassive. He puts the barrel of his gun flush against their skull. They try to scream. Votar pulls the trigger.

 

…

 

For Aranak, his partnering with the two Descendants’ has been taxing. They are of a different lot: quiet and taciturn, slow to anger, slow to action. It was no surprise; they took after their home world of Caltoria and the ancient unmoving forests that shrouded almost every corner of the world. They were tribal and ritualistic. As a Griffon, Aranak knew a great deal of the importance of Ritualism; his chapter in particular was steeped in it.

 

That was where the similarities between Griffon and Descendant ended. His was a dead chapter, their home world of Beranta eradicated by the ancient corpse-light of living metal machines that clawed their way to the sandy surface of his world. Since that day the creed and calling of the survivors of Beranta had been swift and brutal- stoked by the fires of indignation, a survivors guilt that could never fully heal. The Partnership with the Sun Descendants had sat ill with those who remained, but they were sworn to the Fury-Captain of the Third Talon. Tassadin; once Captain turned Chapter Master and Griffon Lord by ignoble circumstance. Some questioned his viability; some thought him weak- they questioned his power, his strength.

 

The pact with the Descendants had put that thought in their hearts, to grovel before another chapter and beg their assistance. It mattered not that they now had a world to call home, to rebuild upon; it was the spirit of the matter. The Griffons were a chapter of warriors- not refugees. Aranak swore vehemently to this creed- he could still remember the sands of Beranta, he wore the trappings of the Second Company- the Second Talon, the Claws of Vindication. The trappings of Chapter Master should be the ranking Furies right, not some sniveling stripling of the Thirds.

 

Aranak grabbed the face of one of the masked assailants, bullets smacked off his armor, dusting to the ground like lead leaves. He wrenched the mans head around a full one-hundred and eighty degrees, the sickening pop of bones and cartilage being torn out of place settled his mind that much more.

 

The past day had stoked his ire. Having to be reliant on a half-marine, a whelp that could not even _wear_ the armor of an astartes. He let the limp body fall from his hands, he turned and with one motion he brought his bolt pistol to bear. He thundered off a sequence of rounds, the recoil almost non-existent in his power armored grip. The head of a masked fiend came apart in an explosion of gore, along with his ribcage and waist, the body was blown apart, bits and pieces of sub-human flesh covered the street.

 

Overkill, but satisfying. He rolled his wrist, letting the chainsword settle in his grip. Again the rain of bullets, he ignored them, ignored how the constant hail of lead slowly chipped at his armors paint. He ignored how the reverberations of their impacts fed through his black carapace and into his brain as a tactile sensation much like the drumming of fingers along a plank of wood. In total, he had already slain twenty-five of the Abhuman filth. His auspex and bio-scanners fed such information through his cogitators and machine spirits logic engines, his helmet estimating that he had eliminated a full quarter of their forces through his efforts alone. Blood slicked his hands and dripped from his chainsword, the teeth revolving slowly, still eager for carnage. He could ascertain its hungry emotion. He too desired more.

 

Alone, he could ply his craft in full. He stalked down a street in the midst of bedlam, he towered over the panic, all around him human chaff screamed and ran, they saw him and fell to their knees, scrabbling at the ground to stand and run. Like habit, his tactica display laced targeting runes over their fleeing backs and he dismissed them with a blink, sorting out his targeting paradigms so as to exclude them for the moment, his objective being only the ones who hid their face behind the masks of beasts. He rounded a bend in the street, the walls drawing close, already his Auspex painted life signatures in this direction. As his plated boots thudded against concrete his pistol was up, sounding off Bolt rounds, the squad of inhuman beasts are taken by surprise, the first three came apart at the seams, their ruined entrails littering the ground, the last three lived for that much longer as his magazine settled on empty, he holstered his bolt pistol.

 

The largest among them showed bravery and foolishness. Drawing a steel sword and charging down the marine, a warcry in their inane language splitting from his lips, he had the tusks of a bull Ork, his frame was rippling with muscle and bulging veins. He was also fast, far faster than any of the others he had encountered so far.

 

He was not astartes fast.

 

Aranak bisected him with a flick of the wrist- it was almost conducted as an after thought as he stared down the two others, their forms frozen in fright. This was good, they were right to be afraid, right to feel the chill, the urge to cut through their wrists and beg for release, for escape. Then survival instinct kicked in, and they had two choices: run and die later, or fight and die now.

 

They went for their pistols.

 

Aranak was there before they could so much as draw the muzzle of their weapon clear from its holster. He crushed the first one with the pommel of his chainsword, and slapped the head of the other ones’ shoulders with an almost casual backhand.

 

Thirty-One dead. Still more to go.

…

 

Yenald let fly with a volley of shots, each one punching into an exposed neck. His bolts punched home and burst in the throats of the fools. He shifted right, a flight of bullets slipped into place in the space he had just occupied. They bit into the pavement, their trajectory pulled Yenalds aim higher, into one of the buildings. He volleyed another set of explosive bolts through a window; the snipers blood coated the room. Fire from the first floor of a two-story building, a small smoke shop, autoguns ripped up the pavement around his feet. Yenald ducked and rolled behind a bench.

 

The bullets smacked home as he kicked the metal seat over, crouching low on his side he let them whittle away their ammunition. Two tried to flank around him, he spun on his side and sent a pair of bolts home into the flanker’s throat, the body toppled over headless. He could not let himself be pinned. He flicked his firing setting to fully automatic, felt the weight of his magazine, counted twelve rounds left. He rolled out from behind the bench; he gripped his talker pattern bolter tightly. He held down the trigger.

 

Bolts thudded into the roof of the smoke shop, a shower of wooden roofing and splinters hailed down to the cowering masked mutants, sections of the roof collapsed as the remainder of the bolter mag emptied, a couch and appliances slid through the hole in the roof, crushing the foes beneath. Yenald slapped the empty magazine out of his bolter and replaced it in less than a second. In the distance he could hear the whine of a chainsword shredding yielding flesh. He glowered. Aranak.

 

He did not hate the Space Marine of the Griffons Rage. He could not bring himself to do so. The Griffons Rage Chapter was a brutal and individualistic band of Marines. Fiercely loyal, and very divergent from the tenants of the Codex Astartes, they were proud, and utterly ruthless. They were dying out. Yenald rose to his feet and acknowledged the carnage around him with a weary eye. He could hear the screams of civilians further on down the road he was on. He broke into a paced jog, Bolter to his shoulder, scope to his eye.

 

He could not hate the Griffons, as it was the Griffons who had delivered the Descendants from the darkest night in the history of their chapter. The dread fiends of Commoragh had been no strangers to their home of Caltoria and the twin planet of Caltona. They had haunted the forests like wraiths and fed on their people before, but never was it from a grand Wych cult. The queen of Commoragh, Lilith Hesperex, led a raid on the solitary system. For three days did the system burn under the dark light of the wood-wraiths. Caltona was erased of all life, and the nightmare raiders besieged the chapter homeworld of Caltoria. It was brutal. It was ghastly.

 

The forests burned, the people suffered, the defense auxilia was fully unprepared- still tribal and not even with lasrifles. The chapter was gouged of four full companies. Over four hundred marines died in the attack. It would have been the entire chapter. Their Lord and Master- Antos, The Denier of Cruel Fates, battled the dread wyches. He was brought low by the foul poisons of the dark elder in an act of cowardice. He nearly died.

 

Fire from the sky. Drop pods of red and silver, yellow and white, among them a winged angel of vengeance on a pillar of fire. The third company of the Sun Descendants had brought with it back from its conquest a chapter of nomads lost.

 

The Griffons had delivered the Sun Descendants from a long night. They broke the back of the raider force, made them flee into their dark portals. The newly appointed Griffon Lord of the Rage- Tassadin- delivered Antos from death. Yenald had even seen the young Chapter Master for himself. Regaled in a panoply of artificer armor, a monopoint jump pack of ancient mark, stabilizer wings curved up in an angel’s flight. A burning sword fitted with promethium feed lines.

 

He was young, barely past his first century and in the command seat of an entire, destitute chapter.

 

Yenald did not envy the boy. He could see the weight crushing the marine master. He wore a suit of armor made not for him but for another- given to him only out of desperation and line of succession. The venerable Chaplin standing beside him was perhaps the only reason that he had not broken yet under the strain of command. Yenald knew that strain well.

 

A full squad of masked menaces. Ten in total. They were throwing pipe bombs into the windows of shops. He saw one break through a colorful stained glass affair. Yenald froze. He heard screams from within. A blast shook the street. Yenald watched the mangled small corpse that flew out- streaming fire, his eyes widened. His bolter was thudding off angry rounds before the child’s corpse hit the dirt. Four bodies joined it on its descent.

* * *

 

Votar ran the slide of his shotgun back, ejecting a spent shell, thumbing a new shell in through the ejection port and casually shouldering his weapon. He could feel the desperate fear roll off the thing in front of him, backed into a literal corner. The back of the storeroom wall was disgustingly solid.

 

Votar heard the babbled words from behind the mask. He could imagine what they were. He ignored them, his eyes tracing down the lizards tail sprouting from behind the man. Votar grunted and lowered his weapon slightly. Before the man thing could react, Votar pulled the trigger. The man-things knees erupted into a cloud of bone and blood. The grenade he had been holding slipped from stunned fingers.

 

Votar was already tumbling out through the front door by the time it hit the ground. The scout marines shoulders popped as he rolled them, the tension easing out even as fragmentation cut through the air behind him, some of it nicking the back of his neck and arms, pinging off his carapace armor.

 

The Scout marine began thumbing red shells into the magazine of his shotgun. The fight had torn through his ammo reserves. He should have prioritized closed quarters engagement over ranged, but he could not deny that he enjoyed the sight of mutants being torn to shreds by plasteel pellets traveling at sufficient speed. There was something just so rewarding of the purge by gunfire.

 

The silence of after combat is not silent at all. There is still a town burning around him. Buildings break under crackling flames, gunfire still echoes every odd second, dying down as time passes. Shouts, yelling, screams of pain, the death of hope, the shrill calls for loved ones.

 

Votar clicks his vox-bead; he is soon answered.

 

_+Status.+_

 

“No further hostiles encountered,” He says, ruminating on the wreckage around him. “Proceeding to rendezvous.”

  
_+Acknowledged.+_

 

…

 

Yenald released the Vox bead, staring down at the corpse at his feet with an unreadable expression. It was a child’s body. Charred black and mangled, but he could still make out the proportions that marked it as infantile.

 

It had been thrown clear of the store it and its family had sought shelter in by the blast made by the chemical explosive the masked-mutants had used. Yenald had even seen the creatures light the explosive that had ended this child’s life, as well as the one who had thrown the tubular bomb. It is a sight he had seen played out countless times on innumerable battlefields.

 

The Marine stepped over the corpse, continuing on down the street, he slipped a full magazine into his bolter. He didn’t bother looking back; there were only regrets behind him. He had no use for such things.

 

He found Votar standing sentinel in what was once a central plaza, the dark train they rode into town on lay silent within the station upon the wall behind them. Yenald wondered how things would have gone differently had it not stopped. “It appears the Adeptus Arbites or whatever facsimile this backwater possesses have been lax in their purges.” Votar nods to one of the near corpses possessing less-than human attributes, the mask was shattered, part of the head sheared off, the telltale sign of a chainswords cut.

 

“Agreed.” Yenald has heard of the worlds forgotten to Old Night, before the days of the Great Crusade. Worlds in which Mutants and Abhumans were left un-oppressed, and Inhuman became the master of Human. It was chilling to think of what would happen had they not been present for this attack. The thought struck him then, it occurred how these mutant aggressors wore uniform, how they seemed organized- how they had a plan of attack.

 

“There may be more.”

 

“That is a distinct possibility,” Votar frowned at this; it was a bitter thought indeed. “This might not have been the only village to be struck at, there could be more, further down that railway line.” He was quiet for a moment, letting the possibility hang in the air. “Other villages may not have been as lucky as this one, and even then…” He eyed the ruined buildings, the smoke, the fire, and the corpses.

 

Aranak made his entrance then. A wall blocking off an alley collapsed, bursting outwards as a silver and red shoulder burst through, followed by the hulking form of an armored space marine, chainblade held in one hand, limp corpse in the other. He trudged over to the two Scouts.

 

“ _I have reaped a great many foes.”_ He snarled; his belligerent tone amplified by the growl of his Vox speakers. “ _Mutants are seldom worthy, however.”_ He dropped the ragged corpse of some bastard hybrid between canine and man, triangular ears protruding from the head, a shaggy tail from the back. A grievous wound across the throat marked Aranaks’ work.

 

“You certainly were not lax in your duties,” Votar eyed the grisly rent across the corpse, a habit he was beginning to form. “There is a road to the north.” He announces. “Perhaps, it can lead us to a more knowledgeable city or Hive. Mayhap, even an astropathic choir?”

 

Yenald nods his consent to the plan; Aranak waves his hand in neutrality. Before they can move more then thirty paces, Yenald whirls around. “Movement.” He announces.

 

Civilians.

 

The town is finally reacting to the blow it has been dealt and then relived of. Trickling from their homes, from shattered corner stores, they are bleary eyed and afraid. They are also talking. They gather around, dozens of them now, they approach what could only be their saviors, men and women, children and the old. Some are wounded, some are carrying the others on their backs, but they all make their way around the Astartes.

 

As Astartes, Yenald, Votar, and Aranak are not unused to the concept of being heralded as heroes- one of their many tittles are the Angels of Death. They are the deliverers of swift retribution to the foes of mankind and their justice is dealt in violence. It is uncommon to be directly praised, however. More often then not, a Space Marine is more concerned with the next battle than any compensation. Duty is reward enough.

 

Yenald counted thirty of them, it was easy enough to see; he towered over them all, even the men only came up to around his shoulders. They were talking- all of them at once- it was disorienting, so many voices all directed at them. He looked at Votar, the young scout was not faring any better, his jaw clenched pensively, Aranak was inscrutable in his armor. “Votar, can you make out what they are saying?”

 

“Barley.” He answered quickly, “I believe that they are praising us.”

 

“Then let us depart.” Yenald grunted. As a Sun Descendant, Yenald and Votar had more interaction with Humans than most Space Marine Chapters; but it was the chapters Druid Sages who often enacted such interaction, dictating the harvests of the fields and weaving enchantments around forest villages to keep out malign spirits. As scout marines, a force usually deployed away from the front and any habitation, they were wholly unprepared for this situation, the memories of their time before the chapter came to them then, a distant thing, clouded and hazy.

 

In the background, away from the crowd, the survivors pick through the rubble. They carry buckets of water, they pull carts laden with the wounded and dying, they shout commands and sift through the debris. They move like they have done such things before, as if they are used to such hardship. It is almost commendable.

 

Aranak is watching a group of the Humans dig through a collapsed building. Several are throwing buckets of water over a fire that is threatening to spread along the shattered wooden supports, while the others try to lever a section of the collapsed wall upwards. They heave together as one and it begins to shift, it begins to move. A person drags themselves out from under the ruins.

 

It is not human, Aranak stiffens perceptibly. Yenald senses this; he glances back at the Assault Marine.

 

She has a clutch of horns growing from her head, and long ears. She holds a child close to her chest who lacks such horns but whose ears are like a fawns. Two men reach down and help the inhuman woman to her feet, tears are streaming down her face, they are speaking to her, Votar need not translate.

 

They pull up another section of the wall, and a man rises from the ruins, strong and fair, he steps out from the wreckage, and immediately concerns himself with the inhuman woman.

 

They smile when they see each other.

 

They embrace.

 

Aranak draws.

 

“Don’t-!” Yenald is far too late.

 

The man falls to the ground without a head. Skull fragments and brain matter splatter and scratch those nearest to him, some are even wounded and fall to the ground. A second Bolt round craters the face of the horned woman. Aranak shifts his fire to those furthest away before they can run; their heads are blown apart.

 

Another three die in a similar fashion before the panic erupts in earnest. They are simply too shocked; too slow to process how quickly the red giant moved and drew his weapon and fired in one single swift motion.

 

Yenald and Votar are similarly astonished, but theirs is of a different nature.

 

Aranak sweeps forwards, mowing down five civilians with a single swipe of his chainblade, he picks off two that try to run before they can clear the end of the block, their backs erupt into explosions of bone and blood.

 

The assault marine twists around, taking a fraction of a second to aim up at the Train Station before pulling the trigger. The bolt-round flies free, streaking across the town, and punches into one of the cargo containers.

 

The explosion levels _everything._

 

The shockwave blows Yenald and Votar backwards, off of their feet, heat and ash wash over them; they cover their heads and block out the sound as best they can. When they open their eyes, there is a crimson haze to the air. It is difficult to breathe; they trigger their multilungs so as to filter through the dust.

 

Yenald takes immediate stock of the wreckage. The town is in shambles. The train station is ground zero- a massive crater yawns menacingly where the wall once was. Moving away from that in every direction, what once stood is now brought to the ground, blown to pieces, vaporized. Even further from the epicenter, debris became hyper-lethal shrapnel, tearing through solid structures, reducing them to shreds, beyond that point, the shockwave blows down what remains.

 

Yenald has seen the work of the Deathstrike Missiles of the Imperial Guard; he can compare this to a low yield version of those Hive destroying ordinance weapons.

 

Throughout it all, Aranak stood unmoved. Around him there is wanton carnage and he revels in it. He strides over to his first victim. The woman is headless, her brain spattered across the ground. He levels his bolt Pistol at the corpse and before the Descendants can register what he is doing he has fired, and the concussed mutant child the corpse still held close to her breast bursts apart from a single mass reactive round.

 

The dust now begins to settle.

 

Votar is the first to speak, Yenald can see the anger in his eyes and before Yenald can voice his caution, the young Scout snaps. “Do you have any reason for your actions? Would you care to explain yourself- Griffon!”

 

The assault marine doesn’t bother looking back. _“These Humans were consorting with Mutants.”_

 

“And that was reason enough for you to commit wholesale slaughter?”

 

This is reason for Aranak to raise his head and regard Votar with the snarling visage of his helm. _“Is not within the tenants of the Emperor to remove the unclean? These humans were weak- pathetic little things that had let the mutant run rampant, they have wrought what they have left unchecked. I was merely undertaking a task left incomplete.”_ Aranak crushes the skull of a ‘Heretic’ under his boot. “ _Weakness. A characteristic that all Humans seem to have in excess, I wonder why we bother protecting such flawed wretches.”_

Votar snorts, a cynical, uncommon grin tickling his lips, it is at odds with the fury in his eyes. Yenald regards his former initiate; the mantras of patience briefly pause in his head.

 

“ _Something amuses you, stripling?”_

“Yes, actually, something does.” He points at Aranak. “You do,”

 

Yenald quietly moves his finger to rest on his bolters’ trigger; he weighs a full stack of bolts left in his current magazine.

 

_“Choose your next words with exceptional care. They may be your last.”_

“Oh, I disagree. Have you forgotten so easily? Our origins, our purpose?” Votar sneered, stepping forwards, tension coiling in his frame. “Have you forgotten the home you were born on? The face of your mother?”

 

The lenses, the neck, and the grill of the helmet- these were the only viable options he had at the moment. Yenald did not have Kraken Penetrators loaded, he wouldn’t bother with the torso cables, Aranak had Mk.7 Aquilla armor, and the Griffons routinely reinforced the cabling with adamantium and plasteel. The standard mass-reactive fragmentation bolt rounds he had loaded would be less than effective; he would have to go for kill shots towards the head.

 

_“I was born in the craggy mountains of the mighty Rocs where I was trained, there is nothing before that. There is only my gene-father.”_

“That does not surprise me.” Votar says, “Because you are flawed. You are broken. Your chapters apothecaries took not a boy willing to become a warrior, but a stick of iron ready to be a sword.” Votar stands before Aranak, his knuckles white, the frame of his shotguns creaks.

 

“You are pathetic. You chastise humans because you were never human in the first place, you know nothing of what it means to _be_ human.” Votar hawks and spits, the phlegm splatters on the pavement before Aranak. “You are not worthy of the title of Astartes.”

 

Sparks shower Votars’ face as the chainblade is knocked upwards, passing cleanly over the young scouts head. Yenald steps before his former initiate, staff drawn and spinning lazily in one hand. “Stand aside.” He orders his younger. Votar steps away, shotgun still trembling in his hands, anger in his face. He knew that Aranak would try to strike him- but not with the intent to kill. He knew the Assault marine of the Griffons Rage was a brute and quick to anger- but not a killer of brothers.

 

Yenald was tired of patience. Anger was inside him, and it was foreign. He had only felt it once before, when the Apothecaries told him that the Black Carapace had refused to take, and he would never march with the Brothers of the first, second, or third company. He had been angry that day, but it was different now. That old anger was at himself and the flawed geneseed that rejected that which would make him a true Adeptus Astartes.

 

This anger was at someone else.

 

Something else.

 

The Marine before him. ‘ _Brother’_ Aranak, Assault marine of a chapter of space marines’ only one hundred and forty Brothers strong, was the object of his odium. “Striking at him is akin to striking Brother Master Antos.” Yenald calmly explains. “I have been far too lenient.” Yenald drops back into a loose fighting stance. “I must discipline you.”

 

…

 

On the field of battle, there are few opponents more dangerous than a fully armored Astartes Warrior. Their reflexes are measured in the micro-seconds, their strength is enough to lift main battle tanks, and their endurance and ability to take monstrous amounts of damage makes the process of eliminating even one a truly herculean task.

 

The races of the galaxy have devised varying methods for dealing with Space Marines, each process unique unto themselves. For Orks, Tyranids, Necrons and the unholy dregs of Chaos, these plans usually surmount to ‘More Guns’ and ‘More bodies.’

 

The Traitor Legions are rarely cooperative with one another, and even more rare is a sane traitor marine. Tactics and grand battle stratagems are not in the nature of those corrupted by the Warp. There is an exception to every rule of course. The Legions of Horus and his cronies who still exist today have adapted the art of eliminating Loyal Space Marines. The days of the great heresy saw the first accounts of Marine on Marine combat.

 

Some would say that Chaos Space Marines of the Heresy are some of the greatest individual threats an Astartes of the Emperor will face. One-on-One, a Traitor legionary is a brutal opponent that was forged in the crucible of the Heresy, killing space marines is what they were made for. Their weapons and armor may have eroded over the years, but they are by no means broken. Warp taint has seen to that.

 

The Tau Empire has survived against all the odds stacked against it, but only barely, and their time is soon coming to a brutal end that will leave them as nothing more than a footnote on the pages of history. But during their time they have shown a great propensity for mobile warfare. When faced with armored warriors of Astartes grade, they employ sorcerous technology to keep them at range, and their giant battle suits to gun them down. Chaos Marine and Tau Warrior, training and technology, there is only but one race that has perfected both in the use of combating Astartes.

 

The Eldar both of craftworld and dark design are arrogant in the supreme, their malice and callus disregard for the other younger races is legendary. They are entitled to their arrogance, as they once ruled the galaxy, and they are also the ones who shattered it. Their weaponry is a pinnacle of design, incorporating organic constructs and psycoreactive plastics. They have mastered the mind and the body in equal measure and on the battlefield they are able to push away innocence in turn for clarity of focus.

 

Fighting them is like fighting wind and water, untouchable, and incomprehensible. They float around the field, maddeningly just outside reach and once you are able to grasp them, and you find yourself in an ambush. There are very few warriors that can stand on the same level as them and win. Mankind has one such warrior that not only stood level with them but also surpassed them. It is not through the mastery of the mind or through the perfection of weaponry, it is through the brute physical application of genetic and biological superiority.

 

An Eldar aspect warrior cannot easily match a space marine in close combat, and at ranged, the Marine is almost impervious to small arms fire. This leaves only heavy weaponry as a viable ranged answer. More often then not an Astartes is not willing to let the enemy decimate them from afar when there is a chance for close quarters engagement where the Marine can utilize his speed, strength, and armor to its fullest effect. Eldar are capable of forging blades that can pierce Astartes armor with a single direct thrust, but being able to kill the marine with a single blow is another matter entirely. The neck, the spine, the brain, and the hearts are the only viable targets for just such an act, but these are some of the most closely guarded parts of a space marine, the marine knows this as well.

 

The Eldar have devised ways of eliminating Space Marines in close combat that do not involve a direct, single deathblow. Banshees and Striking Scorpions are the most adept at it, and for the most part the most successful. The first step is to isolate a Marine from his Brothers, spread them out; make it so it is impossible for them to utilize squad-based tactics effectively. Outnumbering them is also a priority; at the very least there must be two to one marine, and then the final step. The death of a thousand cuts: strike quick and fast- do not go for vital points, they are too well guarded and armored- to strike at them is just inviting death. The back of the knees, the elbows, the armpits, the wrists, the breaks where the armor is less dense, blind them with bursts from pistols towards their helmets, make them lose their footing, force them to make mistakes, do not let them dictate the terms of the engagement under any circumstances.

 

This is how the Aspect Warriors of the Eldar race are taught to fight with Adeptus Astartes in close combat.

 

This is how the Scout Marines of the Sun Descendants are taught to fight Chaos Space Marines in single combat.

 

Yenald ducks in close, dodging the swing from Aranak that would have taken the head off any other foe. Yenald wrenches his knife from its sheath and slams it into the back of Aranaks left leg. It punches through the rubberized material with some difficulty; only a heavy twist rams it in the rest of the way. The Assault Marine kicks with his uninjured leg, and it clips Yenald, spinning him back, he rolls into a standing position. He is already moving again.

 

Aranak turns, lurches slightly, he looks down and snarls of the sight of the knife in the back of his knee, cursing he grabs it- the silver staff slaps his hand away and mid strike it changes directions, slamming up into his helmet, he barks a curse, stumbling back. He swings, his chainsword meets nothing, but Yenald is forced back, and the Scout is already moving, Aranak pivots, he deflects a blow and the follow up, but the third finds its way past his guard and catches him in the throat, the fourth sweeps him off balance and the fifth pushes him over.

 

Aranak sucks air into his lungs, the pain in his throat fades and he sees his chainsword. He reaches for it.

 

The stark adamantium staff nocks it away.

 

The click of a bolters’ safety being flicked off and a boot planting itself on his chest draws his attention forwards.

 

Yenald stands with one foot on him, the dark barrel of his bolter pointed directly at his throat.

 

The engagement lasted for less than four seconds.

  
_“So. You are going to kill me? You would side with mutants over a Brother Astartes? Over the Emperor?”_

“We are not Brothers. You said so yourself.” Yenald presses the muzzle of his boltgun forwards into the vulnerable neck joint of Aranaks’ armor. A shot from this range would kill him outright.

 

_“If so then that makes us foes.”_

 

Yenald nods in agreement, his finger rests on the trigger. He speaks. “Are you ready to listen.”

 

“ _You have spoken to me already.”_

“But you have never listened.”

 

“ _What makes you think I will sully my ears with your words now?”_

 

“I have bested you in single combat. Such is a rite among your Chapter.”

 

Aranak grins under his helm, “ _You planned for this, didn’t you?”_

“No. I wished to avoid this. You forced my hand.” Yenald withdraws his bolter and steps back. Aranak sits up; he yanks the blade from his knee and throws it at Yenald. The Scout marine turns slightly, and the blade slips back into its sheath across his chest.

 

“ _Fine then.”_ Aranak pulls his Chainsword over to him. He stares witheringly up at Yenald. “ _You have hold of the Rocs’ Feather. Make your words and I shall hear them. Make your questions and I shall answer them.”_

 

“You hate the Mutant. Why?”

 

_“Because they are unclean. Have you forgotten the Creed?”_

“Then what of the Ogryn and Rattling and Felinid and Squat?”

 

“ _They are but another form of Man._ ”

 

 _“_ And the Psyker and Navigator?”

 

_“Mutant.”_

 

 _“_ Then why do they see service?”

 

_“They are of use to us.”_

 

 _“_ What dictates their use?”

 

“ _Their ability.”_

“And those who have no ability?”

 

_“They die.”_

 

“How do we judge ability?”

 

_“Through the Emperor.”_

 

“You are not the Emperor.”

 

_“I am not.”_

 

“Then why do you judge these mutants?”

 

Aranak curls his hands into fists. “Why do you judge these mutants?” Yenald asks again, more firmly.

 

“Have you committed Heresy, Marine?” Yenald raises his bolter, the safety flicks off, his finger caresses the trigger, and he steadies its scope on Aranaks head. “Have you?”

 

Aranak stared at the sky for a long while, sitting there, swallowing his pride as if it were composed of daggers and glass. “ _I have not sinned.”_ He said.

 

“These mutants are to be considered Abhuman until we are told otherwise.” Yenald safeties his bolter, and lowers it. He nods to Votar, “I will speak with you later.”

 

The three Astartes left the village to burn.

* * *

 

The people of Remnant are no strangers to calamity.

 

Remnant was born out of calamity, and continues to exist through calamity.

 

Death is par for the course.

 

People die, the Grimm most often the cause.

 

Life moves on without them.

 

A Village has died.

 

It is not a normal death.

 

People have taken notice.

 

* * *

 

“Well one things for certain, there’s no way the Grimm did this.”

 

It was a scene from a post-apocalypse themed movie. A city in ruins, buildings hammered flat, streets torn up and walls shattered. Twisted metal beams coiling around themselves, half melted from the heat, debris strewn about and smoke rising from dying embers.

 

That was all without the bodies.

 

The corpses were everywhere. They littered the ground in pieces, actual pieces. Where a head was, there was not always a body, and vice versa. A group of four picked their way around them. They held weapons; none of them were the same.

 

“If it wasn’t them, then what or who?” A girl just out of her teenage years, acne scars still fresh on her cheeks, exasperated by her pale complexion and short hair dyed blue. She is dressed for mobility; yet, she drags a sword almost longer than she is tall along the ground behind her.

 

“The White Fang, Obviously.” A boy just barely a man kicks the decapitated head of a White Fang soldier- the cracked mask is covered with blood and soot. It tumbles awkwardly along the ruined street before coming to a stop. He stops short of the village center. He is the leader; the role comes naturally to him. He fits the part.

 

“Isn’t this going a bit too far- I mean even for them this is a tad excessive.” The blue haired girl with the excessive sword asks.

 

“They’re a bunch of animals. Animals fight when cornered, Nicole, you know that.” The Leader brushes a lock of white hair out of his eyes, he swings out a crossbow of sorts, he flips a latch and it unfolds further, the arms turning into wicked picks. He rolls a body over with it, he observes as the organs seem to spill out from a massive charred hole in the back.

 

“Can you not phrase it like that?” This one has a smattering of yellow feathers just below her eyes and a ducks tail. The girl with the sword whirls on her, and she shrinks back.

 

“What is it now, Chiki?”

 

“Nevermind…” ‘Chiki’ falls silent.

 

The fourth among them, a boy not yet a man, is also silent, knowing his place with a despondent frown. His ears are those of a mouse, and so is the pink tail that drags behind him, he carries what looks like a club of iron with a decahedron head. He falls into step next to Chiki. He tries to smile for her.

 

“I’m going to go ahead and guess what happened.” Nicole speaks up, pointing at the empty space in the far wall that would have been occupied by a train station at one time. “The ‘red express stopped here to make a drop off, White Fang wanted what they had and…” She gestures to the destruction around them. “This happened.”

 

“Nice to see that you still have eyes.” Leonard deadpans, stepping over the body. He walks further down the street of ruin. The rest follow unquestioningly. Leonard points at the corpses of a group of fallen White Fang soldiers, “Whoever killed the ‘Fang here were using explosive weapons.” Chiki held her stomach down, gazing down at the massive gory holes that perforated the White Fang soldiers. Guts and bits of bone spilled out from festering chest wounds- exposed organs bloating in the mid-morning heat.

 

“How do you know that?” Nicole spoke up. “Why couldn’t it be Grimm? A new type we haven’t seen before?” For a student, she was remarkably at peace with the carnage around her.

 

Leonard knelt down and picked something up from the street, he rolled it in his hands and tossed it to Nicole, who caught it handedly.

 

It was a bullet casing, but unlike any she’s ever seen. Bigger than a shotgun cartridge and fully metal, it was heavy in her hands. She turned it over and brought it to her nose, a quick sniff caused her to furrow her brow- she couldn’t smell the tang of dust. There was something else that bothered her. It was a fragrant scent, pungent like oil; a slick residue coated the shell. There were also engravings on the cartridge, she ran her thumb along the indent of a two-headed bird, one head was blind, and one three pronged claw was coated in thorns. “They look like twenty or thirty millimeter shells,” She turned the cartridge over, looking at the underside, there was script, but she couldn’t read it. “You understand any of this?” She looked to Leonard.

 

Leonard ignored Nicole’s’ question, pocketing a few more of the spent shells. The only partially intact area of the village was the town center; the high buildings around it sheltered the cobblestone plaza from the majority of the destruction. Leonard took a glance at a pile of corpses, “Looks like someone had a bad day,” He noted several of the bodies lacked their heads, or were missing arms and other appendages, he gave Nicole’s theory credence here, as it looked like some wild beast had torn the limbs from the body upon looking closer at the wounds.

 

It didn’t add up, however.

 

“Chiki.” Leonard spoke up, the yellow-headed Faunus stiffened, as if expecting reprisal.

 

“Y-yes?”

 

“Remember how you protected the folks of that one town? They were all clustered together behind you like a herd of sheep, expecting you to save them.” Leonard looked at the spread of corpses, all of them slumped over each other in death- whatever killed them had been quick enough to catch them where they stood, killed them before they could run. “This looks quite like that- except the Hicks are all dead here, yours were more-or-less alive by the end.” Chiki shifted where she stood, she didn’t know how to take that remark- a compliment or an insult? That was always Leonard’s way.

 

“What exactly are you getting at?” Nicole asked.

 

“Nothing, maybe the villagers were all herded here, perhaps they didn’t come willingly seeking protection or trying to thank their saviors.” Leonard shrugged, stepping over several corpses to reach down and pluck a familiar shell casing from under a body. His thumb smeared the blood off of the bird engraving.

 

“All I’m trying to say is, that we might be dealing with a rogue Hunter, maybe even more than one- a team, even.” The white haired boy scowled, “This is going to be a mess and a half…” Leonard took out his scroll. “Take pictures of whatever you think matters and send them back to the Academy, I have a call to make.”

* * *

 

“Myn-Nahme-Es-Yan-Eldan.”

 

“Better, but you must emphasize the ‘I’ more. Do not roll it.”

 

“My-Nahme-Is-Yan-Eldan.”

 

“Excellent. That is correct. Try saying that you would like this; here.”

 

“I-Wood-Like-Ah-Haum-Bur-Gore.”

 

Votar smiled, he put the plastic sheet to the side, clasping his hands. “That should be it. We should be able to build upon this basic understanding.”

 

Yenald leaned back in the seat, pleased. “Praises to the Emperor that he saw it fit to not make us mindless brutes.” Votar scoffed lightly. He cast his eyes towards the door of the rustic café, just outside, arms crossed and standing at stoic attention a Red and Silver giant drew the eyes of passing crowds.

 

“So it would seem.”

 

“Votar,” Yenald cautioned.

 

“Patience, yes, I have forgotten my truth.”

 

They had hard marched for just under several hours, the smoke trail vanishing into the distance behind them as the dust-shod road ran on and the hills rolled underneath them. It had been a silent march, Yenald leading the procession, Votar fuming behind him, the cold malice of Aranak bringing up the rear.

 

A city was an eventuality that Yenald felt physical relief from upon seeing. Walls must have been a center point of this worlds culture, and he felt that he now understood the reasons as to why. Its massive grey walls were nearly thirty feet in height and they encompassed the entire border of the expansive city, spreading across onto the mountains that rose on either side of the hub of civilization. Several roads lead out from the entrance, and upon the walls the jagged spires of watchtowers stood sentry.

 

As they grew closer Votar spoke, telling them that this city was part of something called ‘ The Vale’, he pointed to a placard sign, strange runes and glyphs that passed for the writing worked across the wood. The gates to the city stood open and unbarred, several militiamen in woven tunics armed with bolt-action rifles smiled upon their approach, waving or saluting, they said something, and Yenald turned to Votar for answers. “They call us ‘Hunters.’” He translated, not understanding what that was supposed to mean.

 

The city was a mix of differing designs, it appeared rustic, much like the homes upon Caltoria, but also dotted with the structures he would have thought only present on worlds corrupted and tainted by the insidious Tau. There was nothing present within the city that would proclaim it as a good and proper imperial Hive world, no spires and manufactora. It was unsettling- but oddly charming.

 

Their next step of action saw them sitting in a roadside establishment- a wholly new experience for an Astartes, and one that Yenald would not mind repeating if he were to be completely honest. Votar had helped him further understand the basics of the language. The Scout that was once his initiate had always been quick to adapt, his mind was a greased and oiled machine, Yenald expected him to aspire to great things.

 

The People had noticed the marines quite quickly; Aranak drew a fair amount of attention, but not as much as Yenald had previously thought. There were furtive looks but nothing more, just idle stares of curiosity, it made the Marine wonder: had they seen astartes before? The daunting power armored Space marine seemed like a novel thing to the civilians of the city, like something seen only in pictures now come to life. Yenald and Votar drew glances, it was to be expected, but it was the same: just idle curiosity, no surprise or confusion.

 

A waitress approached, he could see that she was cautious. She was also Abhuman. Antlers sprouted from her skull, Yenald, for all his bluster towards Aranak for his recent act of blind Zealotry, felt disgust boil in the pit of his stomach. Votar looked away, staring intently out the window. She isn’t _Human_. She is _different._ She is _impure._ She deserved to- _needed to-_ die.

 

Unlike Aranak, Yenald and Votar knew restraint. Yenald ignored the Antlers as she approached. She halted as Yenald looked at her. He wasn’t sure why she was suddenly so scared. He was not going to kill her; she presented _absolutely_ no threat to him in _any_ capacity. That was when he realized he was observing this situation from a strictly posthuman standpoint. He was not looking at it from a mortal level- He was an Astartes, a being genetically engineered and perfected to excel at killing; he looked the part even when at a relative rest.

 

He relaxed his posture, sliding his hand from the grip of his knife that he had held so tightly for the past three hours. He moved them to the table, trying to mimic the other patrons. She still didn’t relax. His trigger finger twitched when she reached into her apron. He could have embedded his knife in her forehead in under half of a half second, all while sitting down. He could have used the pitcher of water sitting on the table between him and Votar to knock her unconscious in just under a second, he could have rolled back in his chair and put a mass-reactive Bolt into her torso in also under a second. He could have killed her in an increasing number of was as his mind calculated every possible action he could take within the timeframe it would take for a peak-reflex human to pull and draw any assortment of concealed single-handheld weaponry in a single second.

 

She removed a notepad and a pencil, his finger still twitched again. He tried not to stare at the antlers, he tried not to think about how human she would look if she would just cut the damn things off, trim her ears- the pain would only last for a day or so, some simple cauterization would keep the flesh from growing back, contacts would take care of the eyes- hell, they weren’t even a big problem, yellow eyes, the proud and much honored Cadians of the fortress world Cadia- the finest guardsmen in the whole of the galaxy- were born with purple eyes naturally, yellow is hardly an oddity-

 

“Can I get you two anything?” She asked. Yenald blinked, the thoughts went away. He thought for a second, _a full second_.

 

He understood her, his mind had already accumulated the language well enough with the help of Votar, speaking it was also a non-issue now. Speaking the words to another person other than Votar became the problem most apparent. “No thank you we do not require anything at this exact moment in time will you please kindly leave” The waitress blinked. Yenald continued to stare- _not at the horns, not at the horns, not at the horns_ -

 

“Oh, okay, just… call if you need anything.” She briskly walked away, Yenald watched her go, he ingored the other patrons now staring at him.

 

“The Arbites must be contacted to conduct a great many purges upon this world, or they have been slacking in doing so already.” Votar mentioned. “The mutancy level of this place is atrocious, but it is not in our jurisdiction.”

 

“The Adeptus Soritas will more likely than not enact the purges should it come to it.”

 

“ _If_ \- they are allowed to do so, then they will burn this world to ashes with their fire.”

 

“You speak with doubt. Why?”

 

“It reminds me of Caltoria, the forests and its spirits. It would pain me to see such a world burn.”

 

“If the Ecclesiarchy comes to this world, and we bear witness, you will then know why we Descendants do not allow them to set foot on our home.”

 

“Because of the Braeg?” Votar passes his eyes over some of the more notable Mutants within the street-side café.

 

“Because of the Braeg. They are our secret. One that should have stayed hidden to the chapter proper.”

 

There was only the sound of the café between them for some time, during which Votar studied his Battle Brother. “It does raise questions, however,” Votar began, knowing better than to push the limits of his illicit knowledge. “As to why they were allowed to exist at all.” He lowered his voice, “Why not simply be rid of them?”

 

Yenald stared at Votar; in truth this was a conversation he had long known to happen. Votar was young but Yenald hoped to see him leading a squad, and after that, a company. The young marines’ knack for command had become apparent among his time spent with the chapters’ neophytes. As an initiate he had been tasked with dispensing the orders of his masters and sergeants. The only thing that worried Yenald about Votar was his overly stringent sense of morality, and his curiosity.

 

Yenald knew that both were aspects that a marine must possess to be victorious and virtuous, especially for a scout, but in abundance they could be great hindrances. A strong sense of what is Right, and what is Wrong, is what separates humanity from the Archenemy and the Xenos. Moral pragmatism can only take one man so far before their soul suffers and they become nothing more than tools.

 

One such example of what had become of ones who had taken pragmatism to the extreme would be the Iron Hands. Yenald prays that he will not see the day that his Brothers take on the aspect of such creatures of flesh and metal. Without balance between duty and emotion a man is just a tool that will one day break without having ever lived. There is fighting because you’ve been told to do so, and then there is knowing as to why you fight, and what for. The Iron Hands, Yenald feared, that they no longer knew the difference.

 

Curiosity. An empty mind is a healthy mind. To open ones mind is to unbar a castles windows, leave its walls unguarded and its gates open. To understand the enemy is to become like the enemy. Yenald knows all these truths and wrestles with them daily. It is true that knowledge can grant one the keys to the gates of victory, but it can also corrupt- it can damn and condemn.

 

There is a balance between knowing too much, and knowing too little.

 

Yenald feared that Votar did not know that balance. The Scout was ravenous concerning the nature of his enemies- his prey. How best to combat them, what their weaknesses were, their habitual movements and favored weapons. Votar had once drawn a squad of Dire Avenger of the Eldar craftworld Ulthwë into a perfect trap by simply knowing that the Xenos could not stand idle and let a simple ‘Mon-Kiegh’ take one of their precious gems. The Avengers were slain to the last, and the inquisition was most pleased with the plundered Eldar Relics.

 

There was another edge to that sword, however.

 

Yenald had to personally discipline Votar when he thought it wrong to burn a Heretic Library. The sorcerous scrolls that had led a world into Chaotic rebellion had been rumored to be rich with the knowledge of Anient Man, and that the learning’s they held had turned the system into a metropolis filled with the techno sorceries of the Dark Age.

 

Six Space Marine Chapters had seen a combined total of three companies destroyed in the assault against the chaos system and Votar thought that the Imperium could learn from the Heresy inscribed upon the texts. Yenald had begged his initiates’ life from the Lord Inquisitor present. The Man let Votar live as a matter of personal honor; Yenald had been responsible for delivering one of the Inquisitors retinue from danger in the previous battle for the Librarium. Even still, Votar and Yenald still wore the scars on their backs- Archo-Whips had scarred them both. Votar, for his curiosity and his questioned purity- Yenald for his questioning of the Inquisitions authority.

 

The incident had done much to learn Votar of the dangers of Heretic knowledge, Yenald worried that it may have not been enough. Still, it would not do to discourage the Scout from curiosity entirely. Doing so would ruin a potentially great Astartes.

 

“We share common history, the Descendants and the Braeg.” Yenald began. “On nights of Full Harvest they are said to charm the menfolk of small towns.”

 

“More often that was an excuse for mortals who have become quite intoxicated.” Votar added, “Or if they were found in the act of seducing by their wives.”

 

Yenald could not help but smile slightly. “It is ritual for the Druids to participate in the celebration of Full Harvest so they may chase out the spirits that attempted to join in the festivities, and if they could not be made to leave, then to chaperon their actions.”

 

“Such were the stories.”

 

“The stories are true. The Braeg are mischievous, and harbor no ill intent. They take on the appearance of Mortals on the Night of the Full Harvest. The Chapters Druids are there to see that their games do not incite violence.”

 

“But why allow them to exist?”

 

“I know only a little.” Yenald was not lying, but he did not intend to tell the Scout the full truth. “The Braeg are the original hosts of Caltoria. There have been wars of extermination against them before in the distant past before the Descendants came to Caltoria. The Humans of Clatoria had an uneasy alliance with the Braeg for some time. When we came, we saw fit to be rid of the Braeg, our attempts were unsuccessful for the most part. They raided us regularly, destroying our machines and cursing the harvests of the world. We could withstand such hardships; the Mortals under our protection could not.

 

“When the Dark Eldar of the Ebon Knives came- long before the Great Kabal took note of us- and infected the moon of Karin, their raids against us savaged our already dwindling resources. We were unable to protect the human population who could no longer grow their own crops and feed their herds. The Braeg laughed as we suffered. It was only when the Dark Eldar struck them, did they know our pain.

“They came to us for assistance. The Librarians- such is what they were called in our ranks at the time- parlayed with their elders and witches. We struck an accord. We hold our machines from harvesting the forests; they lift their curses from our fields and stay from our mortals. Such was our pact with them.”

 

Seeing that they had none, a waiter, a different one, placed two glasses of water at their table, he seemed not to care that they carried significant weaponry, nor that they were speaking in an unknown language.

 

“Such was the past, but what of the present?” Votar asked, emboldened by the prelude of knowledge. “Could we not destroy them now? Time has changed, our numbers are surely more than the days of founding?”

 

Yenald tensed, it was slight and hidden. “We owe them for their assistance in defeating the Cult of Strife and their Wych Queen- for driving them from the sacred soil of Caltoria and avenging Caltona. We have now bled for each other a second time, our bonds are now linked; you know this- you have fought beside them.” Yenald drunk from his glass. “This is the extent of my knowledge, I can say no more.”

 

“You must know more, you are a Ca-“ Yenald raised his hand, Votar grew silent at once.

 

“In time, Votar. You are still young; the Rite of Century is still unperformed upon you. Much will be given to you when upon your ‘hundredth year.” Yenald grimaced, the memory of the Night of Poison recalled. “Especially now.”

 

“The Griffons still resent our compassion, it would seem…”

 

“Not all of them. Their master is young but he sees the wisdom in sharing blood with us.”

 

“I do not envy his position.”

 

“Few would. Those that do are fools.”

 

“To linger further on the thought of Fools, will ‘Brother’ Aranak be a further provocation?”

 

Yenald flipped around the plastic coated sheet, he studied the words scribbled across its front and back; he was starting to understand what it listed. He answered Votars question as an afterthought. “No, his honor will not permit it. I have bested him in combat.”

 

“You think he will hold to his word over something so trivial as that?”

 

“To the Griffons, martial prowess is everything. It is part of the reason why Tassadin remains their chapter master. His skill with blade and shield is nothing short of exemplary. Any who question it walk away bleeding by his hand.”

 

Votar cannot help but grin. “A certain green and fungal Xenos species comes to mind.”

 

“Mind such descriptions around Aranak, I can only intercede so many times before you are added to his boss-pole.”

 

“Was that a joke, Brother?”

 

Yenald didn’t answer.

 

* * *

 

“ _What is our plan?”_ Aranak rumbled as Yenald and Votar left the café, he walked behind the two scouts, arms still crossed.

 

“Find the local authority. Question them concerning possible Astropathic communication and transport.”

 

_“What if none is available?”_

 

Votar answered Aranak this time.

“Rogue Traders often employ Astartes in situations such as ours in exchange for transport.”

 

_“I will not enslave myself to the will of some lowly mortal.”_

 

“Then you can be left behind.”

 

Yenald stopped them before their spat could escalate; they had other things to concern themselves with regardless. “We require rest. Myself and Votar at the least.”

 

“ _Why so?”_ Aranak inquired. “ _Does your chapter not have a functioning catalepsean node?”_

“It is over-effective. We cannot sleep without partial activation of the Sus-an.”

 

“ _How does this affect our current situation?”_

“We haven’t partaken in restful sleep in nearly a month, Griffon. The Biscopia and Hamastaman in our bodies will start malfunctioning without periods of sleep. Meditation can only achieve so much.” Votar holds up his arm; there is slight discoloration and spottiness of the skin. “The Melenchromic Organ is the first to suffer from this.”

 

Yenald can see that Aranak is put at odds by this, his hands clench and unclench, they hover near his weapons and he regards both Yenald and Votar through his helm. He doesn’t know how to react. “ _I am no apothecary- I cannot wake you should you enter The Sleep.”_

 

“That will not be necessary.” Yenald assures him.

 

Finding an inn is not as hard as Yenald would have thought. Though he is still rough on the translation and what he conveys, the keepers call him and his companions ‘Hunters’. He does not ask them to elaborate on as to what that means, he takes that as a sign of sorts that they are not the first Astartes that these people have seen, it gives him reason to hope. The Innkeeper of the inner-city cottage even waves their fee- something that He and Votar had feared might cause issues. Astartes do not carry money, they do not require money nor do they ask for it.

 

The room was small, only two beds, but it was the only one that they had available- it helped that the room was also on the first floor. Wooden stairs and armored astartes are never close friends even in the best of circumstances. The floor creaked with every step of Arnak, regardless. Out of habit Votar took out and placed a small idol of the Emperor on the dresser between both beds. The Lights were switched off and the curtains drawn closed. Yenald holds a pinkish brown candle with a long stem and wide base. He removes a match and lights the wick.

 

“We may begin.” Yenald nodded to Votar, the two scouts sat with their legs crossed. Yenald set the candle on the floor between them. Yenald takes two berries from the pouch that held the Candle; they are small and red, dried and waxy. He hands one to Votar. Yenald answers before Aranak can ask, he can feel the Assault Marines tension as a palpable force. “Haaed fruit. Used for strong wine. Used for meditation when dried.” Votar and Yenald both chew and do not swallow. The strong taste seeps into their tongue.

 

“When the Candle ends, we wake.” The scouts close their eyes.

…

 

The embers have died and the smell has become intolerable. It was as if the town itself had joined its populace in rotting. Chiki was close to crying from the smell, she has buried herself in neck of Erik in an effort to snuff out the reek.

 

Leonard tosses away a scroll, the fifth one he’s found since this morning. He snorts and spits on the street. “Well that was fuckin’ pointless. No one managed to catch a picture of anything.” He walks back over to his squad, Nicole has a scarf wrapped around her nose and mouth; she looks sick.

 

“Can we please leave now?” She asks, voice muffled slightly.

 

Leonard grins “What? Can’t hear you, take that off.”

 

“Fuck you- can we leave.” She snaps. Leonard frowns, shrugs as if offended, “You shouldn’t talk to your team leader like that, you know.”

 

“And you should stop sucking so many fucking cocks- now _can we fucking leave._ ”

 

“Alright, fine, we can go.” Any good humor the team leader had possessed vanishes, “But never talk to me like that again.”

 

The four Hunters make for the path, three of them practically sprinting, Leonard pauses at the edge of the village. He looks behind him, taking in the death and the wreckage. He inhales, slowly and deep. The carnage and stillness is picturesque.

 

“You see something?” Nicole calls back to him sharply, “I’d like to be back home by now damnit!”

 

He’d told her not to talk to him like that, has told her countless times- she never did listen. He’ll get her back for her transgressions one of these days, hopefully when no one was around. “Take it easy,” He shouted back, walking down the path. “Our job isn’t over anyways.”

 

“What the hell do you mean?” Nicole seethes; Chiki takes a step away from her.

 

“Looks like we have Grimm on the move- and you know what that means.”

 

“Where are they headed to _now?_ ” Nicole massages her temples; the stench of corpses is on her hands and she stops almost at once.

 

“Electrus City,”

 

“Well shit, why do they need us? Can’t their guards take care of it?”

 

Leonard shakes his head, “Not this time, too many Grimm, and their short-handed dealing with Grimm attacks further up the Vale.”

 

“Will we be getting any help?” Erik asks; his voice is just above a whisper, Leonard regards him and nods. “Several teams will be on their way, but they won’t arrive for a day and a half. Were basically on our own on this one”

 

“Does the academy know when the Grimm will hit?” Nicole asks.

 

“Late next evening, we got time to set up.”

 

“What about this Rogue Hunter Team, does the headmistress have anything to say about that?”

 

“Nothing much,” He shrugs, “Might have something to do with the disappearances down south but I wouldn’t count on it. Not likely to affect us anyways.” Leonard walks past the team, he waves for them to follow. “Lets go, sooner we arrive the sooner we can grab a couple hours.”

* * *

 

Waiting is not something that an Astartes of the Griffons Rage is used to. Idleness is so repugnant among the chapter that some even see it as a sin. The thought that one would willingly sit and wait while the enemies of the Emperor still live is abominable. Aranak watches the Scouts preform their ritual, they eat their fruit and the candle burns between them. He registers their breathing slowing, their heartbeat drops dramatically, five minutes later, they are comatose; they are in a suspended state of hibernation.

 

Aranak is no stranger to imperfect geneseed, his chapter suffered mutation and even a lack of six of the nineteen organs that make a space marine, and of those six, three of them did not manifest at all. The Griffons Rage had no Melanchromic Organ, no Betchers Gland, no Omophagea, their Sus-an was more likely to kill the marine it was meant to save, their Preomnor often turns cancerous or doesn’t grow at all, and of all the mutations in their gene-seed, it is the Neruoglottis that is the worst: Most brothers can only ever taste blood when they eat or drink.

 

Aranak had even once heard of Brothers that could only ever smell Blood with every breath they took. Eventually it drove them mad and they could no longer function when not in battle. The taste of blood is not pleasant. Aranak even finds it disgusting- repulsive. Every time he eats he must steal himself for the rank copper taste to roll back on his tongue and slither down his throat. That is only with fluids. He cannot stomach solids; they always come back up undigested, his stomach refusing to hold them. It is because he knows that Blood should not have a _texture_.

 

His chapter- his talon, had once fought against an Ork Waaagh alongside a chapter called the Flesh Tearers, Blood Angels successors. Aranak had even thought to have found a Kindred Brother amongst them, fighting back to back with an Assault Marine as Orks descended upon them both. Their chainswords rose and fell in tandem, hacking greenskins apart in a shower of gore. At the end of the battle when the Orks lay dead at their feet, blood seeping into the ground, Aranak had moved to praise the Flesh Tearer for his martial prowess.

 

He had found the marine tearing the throat out of a dead Ork Nob. With his teeth.

 

Seeing the greenskin meat enter the mouth of Marine… Even though it is a battle past, the memory still makes Aranak feel violently ill. To be cursed with all things tasting of blood _\- but to actually drink and consume it?_

 

Aranak opened the Inn door and left, he did not wish to linger any further. The Innkeeper was dusting the front porch; she smiled at him as he passed. He ignored her. The street lay open to him; the chronometer in his helmet told him that it was approaching nightfall having recorded the luminosity levels from the past day and night on this festering planet, every day spent here was an exploration in heresy- heresy that he could not eradicate because of that damn scout-

 

Breathing. He calmed himself. He blink-clicked another electro-shock to run through his system, the pain stilled his angry thoughts.

 

The Scout had been right. He loathed admitting it, but he was right.

 

He was nothing more than a weapon, even worse than that; he was a weapon without a wielder, without a master.

 

A weapon without something or someone to aim it is even worse than a broken weapon. Broken swords can be mended, loose swords will kill whatever they touch- friend or foe.

 

He wondered what a lost and broken weapon would be, he supposed that it would be him, in that case. Brother Aranak, assault marine of the Third Talon- ‘Claws of Vindication’ and former as well as failed Squad Champion. Surely there were none more pathetic than he. He’d failed his Brothers when Their Homeworld of Beranta died and the last valiant charge of the First Talon ended in suicide and retreat, and he’d failed himself as the last survivor of his squad and failed to earn the right to lead another through challenge.

 

He can’t even die properly, it would seem. The false-faced sorcerer wiped out his squad and the scouts of the Descendant, and as he died his last spell failed to kill them and instead threw them through the Warp to some backwater planet.

 

There was nothing left to Aranak, he had not goal save for whatever the Scouts goal was, and he had no hope of returning to his chapter save through a miracle of the Emperor. He had Faith in the Emperor, even throughout what fresh hell his Chapter had been accosted with, he had kept faith. Even if The Emperor had no faith in him or any of his brothers anymore, Aranak would continue to have faith in Him.

 

So long as he kept faith, The Emperor might continue to love a useless, broken and lost sword like him.

 

It didn’t occur to him how far he had walked until he was staring at the rolling fields through the archway of the city entrance. He continued walking, minding the sign that told when the gates closed, he had picked up on the language well enough listening to the Scouts translate amongst themselves.

 

He walked until he was standing at the crest of a grassy hill, overlooking the weathered dust trail that had been there means of direction for the past day. It looked no different now as it had then. There was a breeze in the air, it rustled a tattered clutch of purity seals on his armor; some of the flakes of blood fell from his chainsword and fists.

 

He couldn’t feel it, didn’t want to feel it. That would mean removing his helmet, removing his armor, removing what kept him safe from everything else. He was fine viewing the galaxy from behind a helmet, it showed him only what he wanted to see: target reticules.

 

He checked his chronometer; the gates might be closing soon. He does not know if they allow entrances at night or not, he would guess that they do not. He takes a moment to look at the sky, past the shattered moon and out at the stars. He wondered which one of them was Sol.

* * *

 

 

Electrus City, a western city of the Vale built under the shadow of a mountain, a massive perimeter wall protected the front of the city, the mountain itself acting as a natural defense all the rest of the way around. It wasn’t too crowded for a city, despite being relatively small, most of its industry was focused on mining exports, it got most of its supplies over land, good relations with Hunters was the only reason it was able to do so. Leonard didn’t like the city, the people were too nice, and there wasn’t enough violent crime to keep him interested, maybe this Grimm attack would harden them up a little, maybe he’d even let one or two of the beasts slip through…

 

“Can’t wait to hit the sack.” Nicole sighed, her weapon still slung over her shoulder, Leonard wondered how she managed to not cut her self when doing that.

 

“Where will we be staying?” Chiki asked, Nicole answered.

 

“There’s gonna be an Inn somewhere near the town center, we’ll stop by whatever one we can find for cheap.”

 

“I’ve been here before,” Erik spoke up, voluntarily too; his courage must’ve come from the fact that Chiki was standing with him.

 

“Really, when?” Nicole raised an eyebrow.

 

“My family traveled here once, a delivery job, it didn’t pay very well...”

 

“I wonder why?” Leonard wondered aloud, Erik shut his mouth, his mouse-like ears reddening.

 

It was a non-issue to show their academy training permits at the gates even at night, the guards took one look at them and the metal doors slid open. The city was dead silent, not even cats or stray dogs wandering about through the streets. Only ghosts and night birds. The street lamps flickered fitfully every other block, oil-lamps were lit next to lodges and inns, they passed several before the Rose Rest caught their attention with a rustic little sign and rose bush growing before the front steps.

 

A kindly lady greeted them from behind the cramped front desk with a staircase leading to the second and third floors, and a hallway leading to the first floor rooms. They found a second floor room available for them, two beds, but it would have to do.

 

“Dibs,” Leonard snapped, tossing his jacket onto the closest bed.

 

“Asshole, shouldn’t you offer your bed to a lady and sleep on the floor like a man?”

 

“There’s only one lady here, and she counts as only half a lady because she’s a Faunus.” Leonard smoothly replies, pulling off his shirt and reaching for his belt next. Nicole doesn’t even bother with shaking her head. “You’re disgusting on so many different levels.” She turns around and jerks her thumb over her shoulder at the remaining bed. “Looks like you’re bunking with me tonight, Chiki.” She offers a half-grin. “Sorry Erik, looks like you’ll have to score some other time.”

 

The Rat-boy smiles meekly, too tired to even react to the innuendo, “I’m used to the floor anyways,”

 

“See? It all works out.” Leonard tosses his belt to the floor next to his bed, Nicole turns away and begins stripping the covers to her and Chikis bed, “Could you do that in the bathroom?” she growls, “There is nothing about you I wanna see.”

 

“Then don’t look,”

 

Nicole motions for Chiki to crawl in, Erik lies down next to the wall, and accepts Chikis jacket with a look of thanks. After Chiki crawls into the bed Nicole does the same, looking with ice in her eyes at Leonard as he rolls himself in his blanket. Movement catches her attention next to her. “What are you doing.”

 

“S…Sorry,” the Faunus girl flushes red, “I… I sleep naked…” Nicole blinks hard, after a moment she shrugs and pulls her own top off. “Whatever just don’t go an try to grope me, alright?”

* * *

 

Aranak stares at the ceiling, He can make out the voices of young adults up above. He scowls and seethes bitterly, his lymans ear tuning out their crudities as he stands in impatient vigil over the two scout marines in deep slumber before him. His armor has locked itself in place so that me may rest without falling over. He does not sleep, unlike the scouts he merely satisfies himself with shutting off parts of his brain in succession. Night had finally fallen in full, and as he watches the slow burning candle he reasons that the scouts would remain in such a state for the foreseeable future, perhaps even a full day. He cannot be sure.

 

He is loath to admit it, but he does miss them.

 

They were some form of company, some form of communication with a familiar concept. Again, he feels so despondently lost without it. It even hurts.

* * *

 

The afternoon comes with a ratchet of crows. Nicole flicks her eyes open, Crows. They always come before the Grimm. She goes to move but is stuck. She feels warm arms wrapped around her, and two breasts pressed against her bare back. Sweet breath against the back of the her neck along with the light brush of lips, her shoulder is wet with soft kisses, a leg wraps around to her front of her hip, one hand reaches into her under her shirt to caress her toned bely, another holds her by the hip.

 

_‘What the fuck.’_

 

For a moment Nicole is angry, then she is stunned, then she is confused, and then even aroused and curious. She ends the deluge of emotions on denial. Quietly slipping out of the embrace of the Faunus’ and to the floor. She sets her mind on autopilot as she grabs her T-shirt and pulls it on as quickly as she can, her light footsteps taking her to the bathroom for her morning routine.

 

‘ _Girl needs to get laid, bad.’_

 

She quickly washes away the feeling of another girls body draped across her own, and tries not to feel aroused by it too much, she still had a love for the sausage, it wasn’t going to change that easily. Some might find it odd that she showers with her Weapon, Tyger. After her many experiences, she finds it odd that most people don’t.

 

But then again, she could be called a rather Odd Girl.

 

She wrings out her hair, water dripping from her body. She wraps a towel around her head and dries the rest of her, shaking the towel off as she finishes, her day-old clothes smell of sweat and week old perfume; it is comforting. By the time she is out, she finds Chiki waiting at the door for her, Nicole blinks, still remembering what happened earlier, but Chikis’ face is as innocent as ever. She brushes past Nicole as she makes for the shower, muttering apologies as she slips by. Leonard is up; Erik is still curled up into a ball on the floor in the corner of the room, Chikis sweater draped over his front.

 

“You gonna tell us the game plan for today?” Nicole asks Leonard.

 

Leonard stares at her more than he answers. “Gonna be doing a sweep of the perimeter, try and find a good place to set up and blast them. No need to get close to them when they’ll do that for us.”

 

“Sounds good.” She shakes her hair loose, bits of water slaking off; she leans her weapon against herself and ties her hair back into a ponytail. “I’ll follow you out, might as well get a feel for the city in case they breach.” Nicole looks back at Erik, Chiki was still in the shower. A licentious thought crosses her mind and she can’t help but grin. “Try not to get too frisky with dear Chiki; Erik. Her oven’s warm this time of the month.”

* * *

 

The innkeeper was there when Nicole and Leonard walked past the front desk, she was sweeping the front porch in an ever-continuing quest to purge it of dirt and dust. She smiled upon seeing them, although she was a much older woman, her eyes still twinkled with youth. “Well look who’s finally up.” She joked; the clock read that it was just past three in the afternoon.

 

Nicole cuts Leonard off, stepping in front of him; he scowls. “Duty calls,” Nicole looks around, the streets are practically empty, and for good reason, the council issued an evacuation order not too long ago. “Mind if I ask why you’re still here?”

 

The elderly lady smiles and looks down at the pile of dust she had managed to accrue. “I was born in this city and grew up in it. I don’t see why I shouldn’t die in it.” Nicole was taken aback by the surprisingly morbid sentiment. “Oh, now don’t look like that. I don’t intend to die by the Teeth of any old Grimm-Beast,” She brushes the pile off her front step. “With you seven of you Hunters here and the walls still standing, I’ll make it to my eighties easily. Besides, this isn’t the first Grimm attack I’ve lived through.”

 

Nicole canted her head to the side, “Seven? There are only four of us.”

 

“Another team asked for a room before you arrived,” The elder pauses with her broom, she looks up, “Is there something the matter?”

* * *

 

“You heard what she said?” Nicole leaned over the edge of the wall, she judged the drop to be around forty or so feet, she could see the stains of black against its base, the sign of previous failed Grimm invasions.

 

“I heard the crone clearly enough.” Leonard stared out across the rolling fields of green separated by a single lonely stretch of dirt; wildflowers were just starting to bloom. “Nothing we can do about it now, though.”

 

“You think they’re the rouge team?”

 

“Who knows?” Leonard shrugs. “Maybe they’re just free-lancers.”

 

“Aren’t you gonna call the academy about this? Ask if they’re any trained Hunter teams operating in the area? Didn’t they say we were the only ones close enough?”

 

“The only team in the area who isn’t completely fucking green, they didn’t say anything about free lancers and mercs’.”

 

“Maybe they should notify the council?”

 

“What would be the point about worrying them if it turns out to be nothing? And besides, the hag said there’s only three of them.”

 

Nicole shakes her head in disgust; she stands back up and walks further down the wall. In better times the walls would have been manned by all flavors of guards, sentries and mounted weapons. As of now, she can only see a handful of militia dispersed every so often, each one distracted and idle in their own separate way.

 

“So, you got a plan?” Nicole shifts around, asking after what felt like several minutes.

 

“Meh, don’t really need one yet.” He sighs, fishing out a pair of spyglasses. “A bit late for making one, they’re already coming.”

 

“What-“

 

“Calm down, its just Beowolves, they can’t even scratch the gates.”

 

“You think that makes me feel any better?”

 

“Nicole. Its – _just-_ Beowolves. A toddler can kill them.”

 

“What about boarbatusks? Nevermores? Ursa’s?” She spins around, pegging him with questions, she isn’t angry. She’s excited. He shrugged, “A couple,”

 

Leonard seems accustomed to dealing with Nicole and her seemingly bipolar shifts in her mood. He wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out that fighting got her cunny wet just as much as shouting at him did. He took another peek through the glasses; he arched a brow after a few seconds.

 

“What is it? What is it!”

 

Leonard stands up, shoving the binoculars back into their pouch, he rubs his chin, seemingly in thought. He looks to Nicole and asks, “You ever kill a Goliath before?”

* * *

 

The gates to Electrus city slam shut, and so began the invasion. It is not the first anguish that this city has suffered at the hands of the beasts; it will not be the last. The opening salvos begin as a carpet of black and white and red seethe out from the forests edge. Beowolves, thousands of them, a sea of snarling fangs and teeth, they leap and bray in the mid afternoon light. Dust-bombs land amongst them.

 

They detonate on impact, the contact explosives burst in wild conflagrations of flaming dust. Fur and skin is scorched black, raw muscle is exposed, wide patches of the Grimm sea evaporate in an instant. The Beowolves trample over their dead, howling and mad. The second volley is launched, and so is the third, and fourth, and fifth, the sixth is the last.

 

“That’s all of them,” The Militia guard mops the sweat from his brow with his forearm despite the cool air of the encroaching evening. The catapults are wheeled back, their allotment of Dust-bombs expended. “So… You have it from here?” The Militiaman asks.

 

Nicole snorts, “Fuck yeah, its just Beowolves so far, barely even a threat when you got wall-game like this.” She taps her foot on the vast concrete battlement that guarded the city. “Now, the Boarbatusks and Ursa’s may be a bit of an issue, depending on how strong your gate is.” The gate doors are vast, two feet thick wooden spars reinforced with iron braces swinging on equally massive hinges. Steam powered engines are rigged to pull the gates open, a task that takes several minutes. As of now, the gates are barred; three log struts stretch the length of the gate on the inside to hold the doors shut.

 

Nicole gestures out at the oncoming wave of Beowolves, blackening the land with their mass of bodies, she leans on her sword- Tyger. “But it’s the Goliath that’s the real issue. Never seen one of those bastards before, they don’t attack people- like ever. “It shouldn’t be that big of a deal, just gotta give it a few solid whacks with this-“ She swings out Tyger, the blade expands, interlocking parts extending and producing gaps along the edge that hiss with bridges of electricity, they snap shut as quickly as they are opened, the bastard sword returns to its normal state, she waves the Militia-man away.

 

There is an arch over the top of the gate, a slight bridge leading to the other half of the wall. Chiki and Erik are both there, the two are nigh inseparable, Chiki is talking, her words are lost on the wind and distance but Erik is smiling, a rarity for the most part. Erik nods, he says something back and the two part, Erik huddling down behind the wall above the gate, Chiki trotting off back towards Nicole.

 

Leonard was… Nicole didn’t think about it too much, he was off securing whatever he needed to pull this plan off. He didn’t explain it in full to Nicole, but it required Erik to be above the gate and unseen until the end. Her and Chiki’s orders were deceptively simple: Thin em’ out.

 

Simple enough.

 

The Grimm were halfway to the wall by this point, the big-boys were making their show, Ursa’s and Boarbatusks by the hundreds were filing out of the woods in clumped together packs, and at the center was the mac-daddy himself. The Goliath.

 

Nicole had seen a few packs of Goliaths, they were always there at the borders of the Vale. Ambling along like they hadn’t a care in the world. They had been big, very big, bigger than almost any other Grimm Beast she had seen. This one was bigger than them all. Bigger, and… wrong.

 

Even from this distance something about it seemed off, she wasn’t sure if the Grimm could get sick, they clearly didn’t die from old age, but if they could get illnesses, she wasn’t so sure. This Goliath must’ve contracted something, or lived too-long. It was clearly not in the right state of mind, and whatever it had was affecting its body.

 

It walked with a drunkards gait, its feet and legs clearly on two-different wavelengths and dancing to a different tune. Its head lolled from side to side, pale growths grew from its body like blisters and boils. Something seemed to be writhing inside of it. Nicole looked away, the first few packs of Beowolves had reached the wall, they snarled up at her, jumping, digging their talons into the wall and sliding back down, adding their scratch marks to the scores of others that had come before.

 

“Hey- Chiki!” Nicole shouted, the Faunus girl perked up, looking over, the feathers just behind her ears were catching in the wind. Nicole smiled, wild and free, her pulse began to race, “Try to keep up!” Nicole stepped forwards, and off the ledge.

* * *

 

Chiki wasn’t really a brave girl. She knew this herself, and was okay with it. She wasn’t a coward; at least, she didn’t think she was a coward. Chiki didn’t run away when there was a fight, but she didn’t run towards them either, she was just sorta… there… in the fight, doing whatever she could to make sure that her friends didn’t get hurt as well as protecting other people who couldn’t fight at all.

 

She still didn’t like fighting, every time she fought, it was stressful, anxiety producing, and terribly scary. If she had a choice, she wouldn’t fight at all, but that choice was one she denied herself for the sake of her family. Nicole grinned, she shouted, and she jumped off the wall. Chiki leapt after her, Quaker expanding in her grip at the flick of a switch. Nicole scared Chiki, but not as much as Leonard- Leonard was scary, he wasn’t a friend at all, just the team leader, Nicole was… Nicole was Odd. She wasn’t mean, but she wasn’t nice, she was harsh at times but never cruel. She shouted at Chiki, but Nicole shouted at everyone, she was just universally intense. But she didn’t always shout. She didn’t always yell. Not when she knew that it was wrong to do so.

 

Erik is…

 

Chiki lands, her aura buffeting around her, she’s swinging, jumping, kiting off the wall and letting her Aura flow through her. She’s still thinking all the while.

 

Nicole is violent. That’s what makes Nicole scary. Nicole likes to kill things; she likes to do it a lot.

 

Quacker jumps in her grip as she lands, vaulting past a pack of Beowolves and landing on the back of a Boarbatusk. She runs Quakers sharpened tapered length through the soft skin at the base of the skull.

 

Nicole isn’t the same person when she’s fighting Grimm. She becomes someone else, someone mean, and not nice at all.

 

The Boarbatusk shudders and dies, the Beowolves leap at her, she triggers Quackers secondary, vents open up along the end of Quacker, Green dust crystals charge and expend their energy, Chiki holds on tight as she jumps skywards, staff in hand, the Boarbatusks skull comes apart in an explosion of air.

 

Chiki can see Nicole now, she’s sloughing through a pack of Grimm, cutting them down, swinging her sword back and forth like a pendulum. There’s just chunks of meat behind her, black blood sprays around her in gory fountains as she cuts away limbs, hacks through flesh. Every swing of her sword sets off a concussion that floors the Grimm closest to her, gravity slams down on their backs, pinning them, making them easy prey.

 

Chiki flips once, twice, riding on the burst of air still venting from Quackers exhaust ports. She drops down amongst the Grimm again, Quacker skewers through three Beowolves like a giant metal skewer. She twists the center of the staff; the vents open, she’s blasted back by the force, Quacker skewers through the Ursa behind her before she reverses the flow. The Ursas stomach is blown through its back as the air-pressure propels Quacker and its owner forwards again.

 

The wind blows around Chiki, her hair waves in the bluster of flowing air, the dove-soft feathers rustle, when she is flying she feels free. She spins Quacker, the vents unsheathe; she hits the ground, hurricane force winds batter at the Grimm around her.

 

She can hear Nicole laughing.

* * *

 

 

Swing, smash, swing, smash, swing, smash.

 

There is nothing simpler, nothing more tactless. It is cathartic yet boring, fighting the Grimm. They come in waves, and you chop the waves up. It is still a release all the same. Tyger is a force of death, electric waves pulse out with every swing, and amplified by her semblance- gravitic pulses rip through the immediate area around her with every swing- the weight of her blows multiplied by phenomenal amounts. An Ursa Majoris powers through a pack of Beowolves to lunge at her, she grins, Tyger growls, and she smashes the flat of the blade into the Grimm- it crumples as it is subjected to three hundred times remnants gravity.

 

She’s lost count of how many she’s slaughtered so far- she’s still going strong. She grips Tyger with both hands, she howls, spinning on the spot, winging the blade around like a mad top, the electrified edge crackles and snaps, every cut is turned lethal as her semblance touches them, every nick turned into a crumpling curse. She tears a Boarbatusk in half, thrashes an Ursa, smacks the ground and a crater erupts around her feet stumbling several Beowolves who find themselves weightless and floating in the air.

 

Nicole grunts, slams Tyger into the ground, her weight evaporates and she tumbles into the sky. Her mass returns tenfold, her Aura blisters into reality as she impacts the ground like a runaway mountain, the shockwave disintegrates the point of impact and scatters the Grimm around her, Ursa are nothing more than flecks of dust to be cast out of an ash tray. She rises from the crater; it’s an impressive work, but not her best; she scrapes black blood out of her face. They’re already starting to pour down into the crater to meet her. Tenacious, without fear, bloodthirsty.

 

A lot like her.

 

Nicole starts to laugh.

 

* * *

 

 

Aranak listens to the sound of combat far off. His blood boils as he stares at the candle, its wick shrinking maddeningly slowly. His twin hearts are pounding, blood roars in his veins as he hears explosions, concussive shockwaves, the screams of beasts.

 

He almost punches through the wall when there is a soft knock at the door. He ignores it, and then it comes a second time, and a third. Snarling restlessly he wrenches it open, and stares down at the small insignificant mortal smiling up at him.

 

“ _State your business.”_

 

“Sorry to bother you, sonny.” She smiles; a broom is clutched in her hands. “But I thought you might want to know that the Grimm are at the gates.”

 

_“What of it.”_

  
“You’re comrades are out there fighting, you know.” She frowns, but it does nothing to take away from her sunny disposition.

 

“ _I’ve no comrades here, so I ask you again: what of it.”_

 

“If you don’t do anything, people may die.”

 

 _“Mortals die on mass every second and the galaxy turns regardless. It is not my duty to protect every single whelp I come across. My duty lies elsewhere.”_ Aranak moves to close the door.

 

The Hags’ face is stern; her voice carries a barb of steel. “It may not be your duty to protect, but it is your duty to kill.” At this he pauses. “You are a Hunter. You kill monsters.”

Aranak stares down at the Hag, his expression is inscrutable behind his helmet.

 

 

“There are monsters at the gate. Hunt them, or kill yourself and be done with wasting everyone’s time.”

 

There is silence.

 

In any other time, perhaps Aranak would have smashed the Hags head in with a single blow from his fist. He would have closed the door and returned to his anxious vigil, leaving behind him a hallway caked in blood and brains. Things have changed, and he felt glad for even the smallest modicum of company no matter how unusual it was. That, and the Hag had impressed him with her gumption.

 

He started to laugh, a rolling grating scraping sound that emitted through his helmets speakers. _“It would seem…”_ He calmed his mirth. _“…That more and more people refuse to respect those of my station. This is the fourth time within a week that I have been spoken to in such a candid manner.”_

 

The Hag was smiling again. “The world we live in is comprised of two truths, Hunter, you either survive, or you die.”

 

 _“Survive or die. Fine words.”_ He nodded; another explosion not far off shook the ground slightly. His blood began to boil again. “ _Very well.”_ His hand caresses the pommel of his chainsword. “ _I will hunt with the name of the Ten Griffons on my lips this day, but I will do so for myself and The Emperor alone and no one else. It will be for His and my own amusement. What comes of it in the benefit of others is just a consequence of which I am unconcerned for.”_

 

He moves past the Hag, the door locks shut behind him. She watches him go, broom twirling in her hands idly. She follows him to the front porch. The evening sun gleams off his armor, a crimson glare reflected off the silver trim of his pauldrons and greaves, a single stripe of silver across the faceplate of his helmet. It was a striking sight, one she thought to never be able to see again.

 

“Hunt well, Space Marine.” The Crone smiles, she hums and sweeps her porch. There glimmer of golden light in her eyes.

* * *

 

Erik clutches Rat tightly. His hands are shaking. It is not because he is afraid for his own safety. He is sitting, leaning against a battlement flush with murder-holes. He is waiting for Leonards’ signal.

 

He can hear the fighting below him; it has been a brutal affair that has continued for more than five minutes. The savage howls of the Grimm are intermixed with the concussive bursts of Quackers aircannon function, and the gum-numbing static of Tygers’ electro-shock discharges. There is also Nicoles’ laughing.

 

Erik doesn’t like it when Nicole laughs like that. No one on team L.N.C.E, do. Except, perhaps for Nicole herself, though, maybe she doesn’t know she laughs like that when she’s fighting. Nobody wants to ask, either.

 

He worries about Chiki.

 

She’s what holds him here, in this team. Her smile, that warbling laugh, the way her hips sway when she walks. She wants to be a musician, a singer; he’s heard her practicing whenever she’s alone. Erik also knows that she doesn’t have the courage to do it alone, Chiki’s just so shy- she gets flustered, blushes whenever people she doesn’t know pay attention to her. He wants to help her, be there beside her so that she doesn’t get bullied, so that she’s not afraid.

 

He can’t do it. He’s just as afraid as she is.

 

Maybe if they were together, they could be brave, maybe they could also still be scared. But they could be scared together.

 

She looks at him sometimes, and it makes him smile. When he smiles, she smiles back.

 

Erik doesn’t see the red giant before it’s already leaping off the wall.

* * *

 

He crushes two of the forest beasts underfoot as he lands. Their deaths do nothing to halt his descent. Two astartes sized boot-prints coated in black gore mark his entrance into the fight that he will make a slaughter.

 

He rolls his shoulders, auto-reactive pauldrons rising and falling to allow him the movement, synthetic muscle cables stretch and retract underneath the ceramite and plasteel surface of his armor; servos hum dutifully, adding strength to the motion. He grabs his chainsword from its maglocked position on his thigh; armored digits capable of crushing skulls grasp the handle with a tenderness that only a weapon and its wielder can know.

 

The beasts surround him, his back to the wall; they think him cornered and weak, for he is not moving. They are wrong.

 

Before he begins, he takes a moment to regard his weapon- his Chainsword.

 

It is four and a half feet in length from pommel to tip, it weighs only ten pounds, it has been used by eight brothers before him- he is the ninth, he fears that there will not be a tenth name to add to its pommel. It is an Astartes Subtype Pattern Chainsword, modified for more effective use by the Griffons Rage Space Marines chapter.

 

The standard Astartes Pattern Chainsword is often much heavier and slightly shorter, they rely on oil and promethium to power them, their plasteel teeth- which there are sixty-six of, each two inches long and one inch wide- are torn out easily, and there is a heavy reinforced carapace back to the blade that is used for parrying. It is a blunt, and inelegant weapon made for kill-strikes in one or two blows. Rugged. Reliable. Vicious.

 

What is there not to love about such a human weapon? Its traits mirror humanities to such a perfect extent: Rugged, able to survive in the harshest of conditions. Reliable, adaptive and quick to heal and repair, where one part breaks another can be used to make do. Vicious, savage and untamed, focused solely on destroying the enemy.

 

The techno-artificers of Griffons Rage space marine chapter saw fit to improve upon it.

 

The ‘Rocs Talon,’ Griffons Rage Pattern Chainsword is ergonomic without sacrificing killing power. The teeth are monomolecular using diamantine edges- the same material used to give bolters their penetrating power is used on its teeth- of which it has one-hundred and six of, each one an inch long, and half inch wide. Smaller, but harder, sharper, and lighter, while still being able to be individually replaced with spares or a whole new chain.

 

The track- also known as the blade length- is elongated and thinned while also being vertically wider; giving it an almost cleaver-like appearance, this is because of the reduced weight. Without weight there is less force behind its blows, this is circumvented by putting more mass behind the cutting edge to give inertia to the force behind its strikes. The carapace sheath is still present on the back of the blade, but it has not grown with the blade itself, it is receded by half a foot, starting from the pommel but stopping short of the end of the chainsword. This allows a stabbing mix of spinning teeth to protrude and allow for shallow, disabling thrusts, and -if the wielder is skilled enough- a reverse cut.

 

The shortened carapace back- which is used for parrying on chainswords- is also edged, it tapers out like a blade edge, and its material is a composite of low-grade adamantium and ceramite, much like what is used on the underside of drop-pods. Strong enough to endure repeated impacts without breaking, but heat-dispersive enough so as to not warp under thermal pressure, it also offers a means of which to counter foes with power weapons. The adamantium is more resistant to the molecular degrading properties of such lethal weapons, but only for so long, as the ceramite will break down under repeated exposure. It does not hurt that it can also be used as a blade if necessary.

 

The engine is as robust as any chainsword; this one however lacks a fuel reservoir in exchange for electric capacitors and a larger, more powerful engine. The secret is in the handle- a solid grip of magnetic black material that can be held with two hands, or merely one. The Rocs Talon utilizes the power generated from the marines mircofusion generator backpack. Griffons Rage marines have a slight modification to their armor, in their arms they have cables that supply power to two emitters on the palms of their gauntlets, these emitters transfer ample amounts of near limitless energy into the chainsword, removing any need for solid fuel or power packs, while it is possible to use the chainsword without such an arrangement, its usability is significantly limited.

 

There is ornamentation to the blade; its casing is silver and red, its teeth a striking yellow, the hand guard is swept with gold, and there are names etched in brass and silver upon the grip. Its colors are muted now, for they are stained with blackish blood.

 

Aranak turns the blade over in one hand, inspecting it even as the beasts draw closer; they are cautious, they can smell Grimm blood upon the marine- it is as if he has bathed in it, his armor is caked in the viscera of their fallen. Aranak does notice that there are several teeth missing and chipped as he manually spins the chain, one hand thumbing off the manual safety so that he might do so. It is a laxity on his part that he will atone for later; fortunately the machine spirit of his chainsword is patient concerning such things. Most of the lost teeth are from far earlier; the beasts that surround him are not responsible for the damage. Only the armor of Traitor Astartes can chip so many fangs from a chainsword of the Griffons Rage. The corrupted chapel on a faraway world is where those chipped fangs lie among dozens of armored corpses.

 

He is missing sixteen fangs from his Chainsword, twelve more are damaged, and three are bent slightly out of alignment, it will have to do for now. He smiles, mutters a prayer of wrath for both him and his blade. He thumbs the activation rune, and flicks the speed to Maximum Purgation.

 

He moves. Grimm die.

* * *

 

There is a new sound that Chiki becomes aware of, it happens almost at once. There are the static-filled concussions of Nicole’s bastard-sword. There are the blasts of air from Quacker. There is the howl of beasts and the trumpeting of the Goliath as it shambles across the fields. Now there is a scream, high pitched- but choking into a snarling growl every second, it causes Chiki pain to listen to it for too long.

 

Chiki flips forwards, cartwheeling over a diving Ursa. She hits the ground with Quacker first, one of the spear-like ends digging into the earth as she activates the aircannon. She launches upwards, the circle of Grimm below are blasted away as she launches off. From this position, she can spectate the battlefield with unparalleled ease.

 

The Grimm pour out from the forest- streaming across the valley like a dark wave. They break and thrash around the Goliath, never straying too close. Chiki can see Nicole- she is a wheel of destruction. Corpses stack around her in a matter of seconds as she wades through the tide of Grimm beasts, Tyger is a cobalt blur in her hands, sparks thunder off its length as it whips through the air like an out of control chain, its segmented length lashing about with as much metal as there are sparks. Its surface is forever clean, no matter how much blood it spills the searing heat of the electricity burns it all off. Thunder cracks the ground around Nicole- Gravity thickens- grows heavy around her, shapes are smashed flat and the ground sinks and flattens around the Huntress into an almost perfect circle.

 

Chiki has seen fights where those craters had become pools of Grimm Blood. This is one of them, as she can see three trailing behind the berserker Huntress. She cannot keep up like this forever. She lacks the restraint of Chiki. Nicole only lives for the concept of _Now_ , not _When_.

 

Chiki can see her own area of combat below her as she floats on a cushion of air. The Faunus Huntress drifts lazily upwards as she shuts off the flow of Dust energy, the vents close and she begins the fall back down to earth. There are corpses spread out all over, each in various parts of disassembly, blasts of Quackers aircannon tear the limbs clean off of most smaller Grimm, while focused blasts punch straight through larger ones. It is not a sight that she looks at with any sense of eagerness or pride.

 

There is the sound of the third; Chiki is the first to see Him.

 

Wading through the Grimm much like Nicole -but with even less restraint and twice the brutality- is a red and silver giant. He is big. Clad in armor no Hunter would be caught dead wearing for it would hinder their speed- _yet he moves just as fast as one._

 

A Beowolf evaporates into a red and black mist as he stampedes forwards, he swings a fist out and strikes the Lupine Grimm, Chiki is surprised that she doesn’t hear a cannon-shot as his gauntlet smashes through the creatures face- then he is moving again- fast. There is an Ursa before him, he does not slow, he lowers one shoulder and crashes into the Grimm monster, for a moment it looks as if his momentum would be stalled. Then the red giant crouches low, grabs the beast by the throat- turns, and throws it over his shoulder with one hand.

 

The Ursa hits the ground and the Giant still clutches the throat, he turns- twisting, Chiki fails to shut her eyes, and sees the length of spine that trails behind the head of the Ursa. Like a morbid whip the giant twists again, bloody bone lined with meat lashes out and strikes a beowolf across the face, the Giant swings again and the bleeding head with spine attached sails into the swarming horde of Grimm.

 

A Boarbatusk stampedes, smashing aside the smaller Grimm in its path. The giant swings- chiki has a second and a half to analyze the weapon the Giant is carrying, a long and wide length of dark silver with hits of red and yellow- it is serrated, and she is confused- the screaming begins, and the serrations begin to _move_. The giant swings, the whirling teeth meet the charge of the Boarbatusk- _there is only gore._

 

Chiki lands among the Grimm with a scream building in her throat.

* * *

 

His consciousness, his world, his existence, they are all reduced into a simple truth. The beat of his twin hearts, the pull of his muscles, the snarling of his chainsword, the hazy red and black gore splattering across his helmets lenses. He raises his arm, and lets it fall; he raises it again, and lets it fall. There is a vibration of resistance- bone and muscle tearing- and then it is gone, and he raises his arm once more.

 

He is killing with every movement, every moment is devoted to a strike designed to purge an enemy with absolute certainty. There is no build-up, no foreshadowing, there is only the strike, and the one following behind it. It is a simple, crude, and brutally effective method of combat- it does not prolong fights, it ends them. The Griffons Rage Third Talon does not believe in martial glory on the field of battle, they believe in victory. Victory is what matters, there is not time to think in the heat of the moment- when the enemy is face-to-face, when you think you are not acting- thinking delays action; victory is achieved through action.

 

In the annuls of glory, many space marines are recorded- there deeds and valor inscribed so they might live through the eons even when the marine himself has died. There are countless accounts of lengthy duels, of a lone space marine crossing blades with any number of wretched enemies in single combat. The stories telling of how they vanquished their opponent with a last-second strike through the enemies’ guard, or a fatal sweep of the blade that decapitated their enemy with a grandiose flourish. They all end in victory, the enemy dead and defeated after a grueling combat that tested both of the combatant’s skill and fortitude.

 

Aranak never payed much attention to such tales. To him, it only showed how inept the victor was. Close quarters combat by nature of its design is a chaotic maelstrom of bodies and blades. Victory is decided in a matter of seconds. Single combat is sacred; it is a rite among brothers where skill alone is the deciding factor. Single combat against an enemy is just another fight, one that requires only action- not thought. Kill the enemy, it does not matter how it is accomplished.

 

He is reminded of Yenald- the scout. How quickly that veteran warrior made a fool of a fully armored astartes. Aranak could not help but to be impressed, a grudging respect towards the Descendant. He had fought like a Griffon.

 

Aranak is surrounded by the beasts. They attack him from every side. They claw at his armor. They gnaw at his legs, trying to pull him down. His arm goes up, the chainsword comes down, his arm goes up again; the chainsword comes down again.

 

He cleaves through a tusked monstrosity, it charges at him, he meets its rush with his blade, the teeth saw through the thick skull and bite into the brain matter underneath, blending whatever served for its intelligence in a matter of an instant. He pushes forwards; blade exploding free in a shower of blood and offal, a lupine beast slams against his chestplate, claws scrabbling to find purchase on the polished Aquila. Aranak punishes it for such audacity, grabbing it around the neck he swings it like a club, the lupine beast breaks against the face of one of the larger monsters, thorns run down its mask and back, swirling red stripes against the white, It is larger than Aranak, almost large enough to be a threat. It bats away the ragdoll dog-thing; its roar echoes the savage cries of the beasts surrounding Aranak. It does not stop moving, its stampede is relentless and unconquerable.

 

Its roar is silenced as Aranak thrusts his chainsword down its throat.

 

Aranak turns, pulling his blades bite down, out of the beast and swinging up into another, the Lupine things; they seek to overwhelm him with numbers. He cuts two of them out of the air, cleaving through one and sundering the other, He side steps one that thought to tackle him from behind, and punches the skull out of one that tries to bull rush him from the side, he is losing ground, Aranak scolws behind his helm.

 

The wind starts to blow.

 

Movement above him, he tenses instinctively, no time to react, he can only now brace for the impact, aerial units he had not bothered to account for, so engrossed in the slaughter was he.

 

Something light lands, and pushes off his shoulder a gust of wind follows close behind. There is a clap of thunder in the distance.

 

Aranak turns, blade screaming for the neck of whatever new enemy this is.

 

Yellow feathers.

 

He diverts the path of his blade, it cuts up and over its head, he redirects into the neck of another dog-beast.

 

As the Scout has said, The Emperor has not yet judged these mutants.

* * *

 

An Atlesian Hunter in some form of armor that nobody has seen before. That’s what it must be, what it looked like it should be.

 

Chiki spun Quacker overhead and slammed the ground in front of her, the burst of air knocked the Grimm before her off of their feet, and giving her the room she needed to operate.

 

She knew she was wrong.

 

She could hear the weapon of the giant howling, its sound was so much louder up close, and every time it bit into Grimm bodies it made a charnel gurgling as it chewed through flesh and mulched bone.

 

Why would a Hunter from Atlas be in the Vale? Why would they come alone? Why couldn’t she feel an Aura? Why hasn’t anyone heard of a Hunter in armor like that before? _Why was a Hunter using armor at all?_

 

Chiki closes the vents on Quacker the second before she steps forward, spearing a Beowolf through the skull, she pulls it out and vents the small amount of pressure her weapon has built up in the brief time between uses, the dead Grimm is blasted away, knocking back into a Boarbatusk before it could charge.

 

There was a boy at Beacon academy- she couldn’t recall his name, but he had red or blond hair- who wore armor, a simple chest piece and greaves, nothing that would hinder movement like what the Giant at her back was wearing.

 

She was low on fumes, Quacker needed to charge up before she could use its air-cannon function for anything other than evasive measures. Far closer than before she could hear the trumpeting of the Goliath. It was getting closer to the gates. _Where in Remnant was Leonard?_ The Boarbatusk to her front righted itself, glaring its hate at Chiki, it was going to charge, she took stock of her options, jump left, jump right, charge, or hold her ground. She decided on two of them.

 

The Giant had to be a hunter, or a very brave Faunus or Human who had access to cutting edge tech that no one in any Hunter team knew about- at least to her knowledge. But then there was how the person in the armor moved. It was too fluid, too dexterous; too controlled- _too freaking fast_.

 

Chiki always had a weird Semblance, but she argued it wasn’t the most weird out of all of them. Though, she had to admit- it was pretty unique. Like a shadow coming alive, a perfect copy independent of motion leapt forwards, Quacker raised and held like a spear while behind the Copy the real Chiki swung and slapped a Beowolf back, a follow up strike managing to catch it through the jaw. The Boarbatusk stopped dead in its tracks, confused, she would like to think, and then it charged, stampeding straight ahead at the Copy.

 

She could feel the eyes of the Giant on her now; she doesn’t turn around, doesn’t look up as she twists and flicks Quacker around like a bandmaster’s baton. She can feel the two ruby teardrop lenses boring into her- was it because of her Semblance? If he was a Hunter, did he have one? Was that what the armor was?

 

The Boarbatusk meets the clone- at the last second it leaps- over the spear tip point of the false Quacker and punching into- and then through- the copy Chiki. It lands, stumbling squealing, the clone shifting behind it like smoke for that was all it is. Chiki manages a weak smile.

 

A Beowolf leaps at her.

 

It also bites smoke.

 

The leading experts on Aura theory have postulated and argued about the mechanics of Aura, and they’ve managed to nail down a few truths about it. Those truths fly out the window when a Semblance is brought into question.

 

Chiki didn’t know how her Semblance worked, she just thought, and it happened. It was not like activating her Aura, it’s different, it’s just thinking and having reality and the understanding of quantum theory ripped apart in her head. She moves, in her head, and another her appears, reality splits in half for her, she’s viewing two different movies at the same time. Saying that they were clones, or illusions, would be a gross understatement. Her Aura is unique, when it was discovered that she could shift between the copies, a scientist studied the way her Aura worked. The best they could tell her was that she was ripping a copy of herself from a mirrored dimension and projecting it onto this one. Shifting between the copy and the fake was best portrayed by the scientists that she was trading places with the copy: one stood inside while the other was in the yard, and when she shifted, the one outside came inside while she went into the yard.

 

It still didn’t make sense. Regardless, it was a handy way for her to get out of the way of any attacks, so long as the copy was out of harms way.

 

It’s also a great way to get behind Grimm.

 

The Boarbatusk didn’t stand a chance, Quacker slams through the vulnerable neck, the vents open and the insides of the Boarbatusk pop like a balloon. It always made Chiki sick seeing that happen, and she fears what she’ll be like if she ever gets used to it.

 

Chiki has a half second to dodge before an Ursa impacts the ground next to her, its body comes apart as electrical fire rolls over its tattered corpse. The Giant spins; its current victim is an Ursa Majoris; it is half dead, black rancid guts spilling out onto the ground before it.

 

Bursting through a pack of Beowolves, Nicole slams an Ursa stuck on Tyger into the ground, its body crumples under the weight of amplified gravity. Nicole stares at the Giant, she stares at Chiki. Her eyes are wild, her face is smeared with Grimm blood, her clothes are torn up and she is bleeding from various lacerations, two of her fingers are out of joint, a broken tusk of an Ursa is stuck deep in her side, she seems to have difficulty breathing, her hands are trembling.

 

Her smile is broad, and sunny.

 

She licks the blood off of her lips.

 

This is the Nicole that Chiki can’t stand to see.

 

Chiki wants to say something, she can’t get the words out of her throat; she’s choking on pity.

 

The Goliath trumpets.

* * *

 

Aranak feels his bolt-pistol hand ache, his trigger finger itches, he can feel the leaden weight of the .75 caliber implement of the Emperors Retribution maglocked on his thigh. It’s a dead weight he so desperately wants to level at the skull of the yellow-feathered mutant-psyker-heretic _abomination_ standing before him. The creature is a trifecta of everything he stood against; he doubted that even the young whelp Votar would object to his judgment.

 

Then there is another, bursting through a wall of beasts wielding a powersword almost twice its size was a puny mortal- battered, bloody, and barley sane. Aranak can draw a quicker comparison to the Flesh-Tearer he had fought with more than he can think of any mortal creature. A wild Roc looked easier to tame.

 

Aranak notes how the beasts now circle them, teeth bared. They are not attacking.

 

They are wary, now that there are three of them together.

 

Normally, during a lull in the midst of battle, Aranak would take a moment to observe the fruits of his blades grisly harvest. Around him were the piled up and rotting corpses of his work, bodies smashed and torn to pieces, mutilated flesh and pulverized bone. He couldn’t account them accurately; it was like fighting Tyranids, heretic cultists, or Orks. The bodies just blended together into a sea of dead flesh, each undistinguishable from the next.

 

He was surprised of just how many of the wretched monsters are left despite the waist high sea of dead flesh spread about him. He and the mutant and the mad-one weren’t even standing on the ground any more; he was knee deep in the dead, they floated upon it. He doubted that they noticed. Aranak wades through the carnage, he rolls his chainsword hand again, the servos hum and he watches as several of the Lupine creatures step back, keeping their distance from him. He wants to believe that they do truly fear him, but knows better. Creatures like these do not know fear, just instinctual caution.

 

The ground shakes, a rolling bellow vibrates the teeth in his skull, it is the king of these Beasts. He has seen it from the wall, a corpulent black mass of flesh and bone, he payed it little regard then, he noted as something he would have to slay once he had finished with the chaff.

 

He realized his error, now that it was closer, and forcing his attention.

 

The Brute of a creature trumpets again, its long tubular nose snorting out a resonate call. The army of black and red creatures ceases their circling, pulling back like the tide; they slink away from the three. It is several lifetimes worth of campaigns and battles that tell Aranak that this not a retreat.

 

He watches the sea of creatures swarm around the Massive king of beasts.

 

He watches as it begins to move, its feet trundling along slowly at first, and then faster, he watches it lower its head, the quartet of gnarled tusks bared forward along with a skull that he was sure not even a Krak missile could penetrate.

 

Aranak realizes how in the midst of fighting he had let himself drift further and further away from the gate.

 

He looks behind him; the two mortals seemed to have realized this as well.

* * *

 

Nicole takes off like a bullet. Just like she always does. One minute she’s standing next to you, the next she’s screaming through the air howling like death. Chiki makes to follow her, Quacker powering up for an extended blast of air, while not able to stay airborne as long as Nicole, Chiki is confident that she can move faster. She hesitates, looking back.

 

This is the first time she managed to get a good look at the Giant.

 

The Giant was not a robot, though it may have had the appearance of one. Eight feet tall and covered in slabs of silver and red armor with a yellow trim, the colors are faded, dark Grimm blood drenches almost every inch of the giant. The helmet is a snarling mask with a grill mouth, angry teardrop eyes as red as rage. There is an X on one shoulder, four arrows pointing out, along with a ‘III’ etched just underneath.

 

The other shoulder carries a personal heraldry of some sort- a fiery birds wing extending into a downwards-pointing sabre. What draws her attention is the chest plate, a massive golden bird with two heads, one is blind, and one claw is made of thorns. Something tickles her memory but she cannot for the life of her remember what it is. She is too distracted by the Giants weapon. For all intents and purposes, it looks as if someone had taken a sword, and replaced the blade with a chainsaw.

 

Blood is dripping from its teeth. She can’t shake the impression that it is drooling.

 

The Giant is staring down at her. The way it stands, the way the helmet snarls down at her; it all combines together to give the Giant an air of absolute arrogance, total contempt for whoever and whatever was standing- _groveling_ before it.

 

Being looked down upon is something that Chiki is all too used to.

 

She shakes her head, clearing the cobwebs, Nicole was going to need help, there was no way she could take down a Goliath that big by herself- Chiki wasn’t sure if it was even possible with just two Hunters- _where the heck is Leonard and Erik?_

She couldn’t wait for them, Nicole was already on her way, and the Goliath was picking up speed, it was going to smash the doors open and then the Beowolves, Boarbatusks and Ursas would spill in and slaughter any people who had stayed behind.

 

The memory of yesterday: corpses lining the street, houses in ruins, Grimm Masks and animal savagery tearing apart innocent and guilty alike.

 

She… She could _not_ allow that to happen to another city.

She tightens her grip on Quacker. She looks back at the Giant. It is standing, one hand rests on a large blocky gun of some sort, the other is stretching, twisting the massive chainsaw-come-sword in one hand; the bloody teeth rotate slowly from the movement. It is staring out across the way, -Chiki blanches slightly; she has been walking over the corpses of Grimm- looking at the Goliath, ignoring the swarm of Grimm around it, the Giant appeared to be as if it were a boxer, sizing up the competition.

 

Chiki stares back at the Goliath; there was no way two huntresses could take it down.

 

Perhaps, two Huntresses, and whatever the heck the Giant was…

 

The adrenalin and desperation gave Chiki a courage she normally did not possess.

* * *

 

Goliaths don’t fight unless you piss them off.

 

They are the only known Grimm beast that doesn’t actively hunt and engage Humans or Faunus.

 

They may have in the past, but in modern times, they don’t seem inclined to do so. No one is sure as to why; their behavior goes against any set precedent that experts know concerning Grimm behavioral patterns.

 

Remnant seems to have accepted this, even going so far as to count their blessings, as it is imagined that a Goliath pack would be an absolute nightmare to deal with. Each Goliath is big, the smallest among them dwarfing even alpha Ursa Majoris’.

 

While that would make for an easy target, it probably also meant that they were tough-as-nails. Each one of them already had bony armor covering every inch of their hide, and that’s not even mentioning the layers of fat and muscle underneath. The thought of how much punishment a Goliath could take before going down is something many Hunters do not like to contemplate.

 

Nicole doesn’t care.

 

Her Aura engulfs her, her Semblance hums around her, she is weightless, and she is flying, a single leap sending her rocketing across the fields of dead Grimm, Tyger in her hands- her heartbeat slamming like a vicious drumbeat in the back of her head- the wind rushing through her hair, the scent of blood like fine wine- the pain jolting through her side and bones grating in her hands every time she moves- _why can’t she just move faster there is killing that she needs to do-_

Focus returns almost a moment too late, the Monster Goliath looms ever closer as she streaks through the air like a stray arrow. She can’t help but gag on the stench of the thing. Grimm always smelled bad, and it stood too reason that the older they got, the more the filth they accrued.

 

She lets gravity filter back into her, more importantly she lets it mass in Tyger, the tip becoming heavy and drawing her downwards like a ballistic missile on a terminal course, Electricity hummed along the length of the blades razor edge and that inescapable giggle fermented in the pit of her stomach- always there whenever she found herself fighting something _Big._

She almost doesn’t see the troop of Berengals squatting besides it.

* * *

 

“Come with me!”  
  


Aranak snaps out of his trance, the thousands upon thousands of engagement scenarios he had cut down to just a few dozen are put on hold. He glowers down at the mutant. The feathered creature is standing just ahead of him, a look of urgency upon- Her? His? Its? The Mutants face has a look of urgency. It is impossible to distinguish the gender of Mortals who are young, and trying to differentiate between a mutant child is next to impossible for an Astartes who are already so removed from Mortal trivialities.

 

“Please, we have to take out the Goliath!” The mutant is talking- Talking to _him._

 

“It’s going to smash open the gates!” He couldn’t be certain, perhaps his Lymans ear is degrading- a quirk in his already flawed geneseed newly discovered- but he was almost certain that it was demanding something of him.

 

“Me and Nicole can’t do it alone!” He was noting a spike in the pace of his twin hearts; natural combat stimulants were beginning to leak into his system, there is also a flicker of rage so familiar.

 

The mutant looked back at the ‘Goliath,’ a living battering ram surrounded by a swarm of black and red. Something was still off about the massive beast.

 

“You’ve got to help us! They’ll kill everyone! Please, listen!” Fighting through the smaller chaff would take a five or six seconds depending on how much momentum he could build up. If he had his jump-pack, and it wasn't a piece of twisted scrap, ruined by the hands of a traitor astartes, that wouldn’t be a problem. The ‘Goliath’ would be another issue entirely.

 

“S-shit! Nicole!” The other one was just knocked out of the sky, he watches the Mutant launch itself into the air; he can smell the desperation on it.

 

He looks back to the ‘Goliath,’ he would need to sever the leg tendons and immobilize it. He rolled his sword wrist one more time.

 

If he were of the Silver Skull’s chapter, he’d need a bigger wall to mount its head on.

 

He flicked the stud on his chainsword for the next highest setting: _‘Total Purge’_

 

He begins to Move.

* * *

 

Berengels.

 

Nicole hates Berengels.

 

Of all the Grimm, in all of Remnant, she hates them the most.

 

Berengels are smart as a rule.

 

That is why she hates them.

 

All Grimm are dangerous and stupid, but some Grimm live long enough to grow a brain. They ‘evolve’ for lack of a better term, and gain a sly cunning, and this makes them more than just dangerous, it makes them lethal. Berengels are born lethal. They have smarts, they have an understanding of how Humans and Faunus react, and they have _hands_.

 

Nicole has seen Hunters crushed to death in those hands far too many times.

 

Berengels don’t play fair.

 

She has a second to cut through the first thrown Boarbatusk, a half second to cut through the second, and the third one slams into her.

 

She loses her concentration as a squealing mass of bones and tusks slam into her. Something inside her breaks, she’s not sure what it could be this time.

 

Probably her pride.

 

Her semblance cuts out as she pushes all power into her Aura as she hits the ground. Tyger never once left her hands and she slaughters the fucking Boarbatusk that dropped her like a bird smacked by a stone, its flesh is turned to ash with a single swing- she cant get enough of its pathetic squealing, she makes sure to kill it slowly-

 

She ducks under the leap of two Beowolves, she’s losing focus; she needs to keep her eyes on the prize- the Big-Fucker. The Goliath is hers- no one else’s. She _Needs_ to slaughter it herself. She unlocks Tygers secondary mode, the blade segments, plates folding back to form jointed centers interlocking with each other. She bolts forwards, lightning screaming off the metal segments of Tygers whip form.

 

Lupine shapes drop to the ground all around her, she curses, slamming the ground with one hand she bounces upwards from a zero-g boost, she spins mid-flight, Tyger whirling out and intercepting another thrown Grimm- she is frothing at the mouth- she lets Gravity reassert itself and she angles her fall towards those _fucking_ Berengels- She’s gonna tear their stupid faggot-ass faces off-

 

Another trio of airborne Grimm fly through the air, gnashing teeth and razor claws, Nicole readies Tyger, she has half a mind to let them hit her so she can spring board off of them at the Berengels responsible for throwing these pieces of shit at her.

 

One of the Beowolves is blasted out of the air, a buffeting wind rips past Nicole and she has a moment to _seethe_ as _fucking_ _Chiki_ steals _her_ kill, Tyger lashes in her hands, all she has to do is land and ‘bounce’ back up and she can strangle the fucking duck-bitch, rip her tits off, tear her cunny up with Tyger-

 

Reality clicks back into place for Nicole right before she can act on her murderous thoughts. The ground reaches up to meet her and Nicole is half tempted to let herself pancake out of a disgustingly familiar sense of horrified shame. She pops her Aura and lands, staggering slightly; it has been nearly a month since she last had an impulse like that.

 

They were becoming more common.

 

Tygers grip feels sweaty in her hands.

 

There is blood in her mouth, not her own, and it is not human. 

 

‘What the _fuck_ is wrong with me?’ Nicole asks herself.

 

This hasn't been the first time she's asked herself that question.

* * *

 

He shoulder-barges into the first pack, through the second and wades through the third. His chainsword is howling and drinking blood all the while. A palpable fountain of gore erupts in the wake of each carving swing. The beast’s hides offer almost no resistance to the bite of his chainsword.

 

They are clawing at him, and he is forcing his way through, bashing them aside with his fists and his boots. It is like pushing through a storm of teeth and talons; they gouge at his armor and his tactica display alerts him of several breaches along the joints. He grits his teeth and powers forward, hacking and cutting like an initiate more than a seasoned astartes- it matters not, there is no way he can miss.

 

He is running parallel with the horde at this point, they are biting at his heels, he punches his way through as he angles himself towards the charging Goliath- its feet pound the ground like siege artillery strikes, each concussive steps threatens to throw off his footing. He looks ahead; the sign he and the two Scouts passed is trampled underneath the feet of countless beasts. The opened doors of the gate are just ahead. Aranak draws his Bolt Pistol; even while running he is certain he can make a clear shot against the Goliaths leg tendons-

 

He looks back at the gates.

 

When did they open?

* * *

 

For nearly three generations not a single Grimm beast has ever been reported inside the walls of Electrus City. There have been invasions, there has always been invasion of course, but there has never been a single successful Grimm attack that has penetrated the defenses of Electrus. It is a city built to survive a siege, constructed during the Great War. The mountains at its back are sloped and impassible, tunnels are bored into them to mine for natural resources, and wellsprings supply the city with fresh water, food enough to last for years is stored within multiple caverns.

 

It is one of the few cities that can vaunt the title of being one of the safest locations in Remnant, its walls impregnable, its security fastidious.

 

There was no question that the gate would fall. The Civilians knew this, everyone knew this, it was only a question of time.

 

Time.

 

Time had seen to that long ago, rusting hinges and rotting wood

Time didn’t break the gates this day.

A Hunter, acting on instinct, did that.

 

The controls for the gate operation were deceptively simple. He had been expecting a console of security keys and various other authorization procedures, all he found instead was a dinky on and off switch and a release catch for the door-bars. Leonard sniffed, ignoring the two tied-up guards in the closet for a moment. It would have been quicker to kill them but then again- legality and all that hoopla about morals.

 

He checked his scroll; field cams gave him a good enough view of the outside proceedings. The Goliath was getting close now, starting its charge. He supposed now would be as good a time as any.

 

Leonard released the locks and opened the gates. The ancient steam motors were already warmed and boiling, the cranks and levers began to whine and hiss; the massive oaken doors slowly drew open.

 

He set a remote activation scroll next to the open-close switch, it would come in handy later but for now he had done everything he needed to, now all that was left for him to do was to get into position, and wait for the fireworks.

* * *

 

Chiki was running through dust energy, burning through it at a dangerous pace, Quacker was giving off incessant whining beeps as she charged up another pulse of pressurized air, she jumped, Aura boosting herself to go even higher without the use of Quacker- she needed all the fuel for offensive purposes now. She let fly, she rolled backwards through the air, tumbling as the blast of compressed air blasted out of the end of Quacker with the force of an F-five tornado, Grimm were thrown up into the air at speeds she didn’t take the time to fully appreciate. The Goliath shifted slightly in its charge, a shudder rolling through its hulking frame, the stench wafted up over her nostrils for a moment and she gagged, and then she was falling- Quacker was utterly drained. She cursed silently.

 

Nicole cartwheeled, slamming the end of Tyger into the ground, a pulse of gravitic energy sending her flying skywards on a parabolic arc that paused at its apex, and she fell to earth like an electric meteorite. Nicole was going full bore, just like Chiki, sparks were cascading off of Tyger like a mad whirling thunderstorm, arcs slammed into Grimm on the ground like heavenly thunder, ashes were cast to the wind, and Nicole struck the ground in a deafening snap of thunder and cloud of ionized Grimm blood. She was right where she wanted to be- in the middle of her own storm. The red haze was menacing the edges of her vision, and it granted her that cold fearlessness. She was right before the charging Goliath, right where she belonged.

 

Nicole swung.

 

The Goliath didn’t dodge so much as it just kept moving in the same direction- the one she was currently occupying. The stench was unreal, and as Tyger arced through the air, cutting through five Beowolves that thought to try and block her, she had a split second to scream before the Monster Goliath swung its massive trunk and sent her flying.

 

The crack of her Aura shattering illuminated the evening.

* * *

 

 

Aranak held down the trigger, hosing the back of the Goliath in bolt shells that didn’t even manage to turn its attention away from its headlong charge, he aimed at the back of the legs- thick chunks of meat came apart with every shot, soon the twelve round magazine was exhausted. He discarded the magazine and slammed home a fresh one, it was one of his last and he hated every moment that his jump pack was absent. He thrashed through a pack of dogs and sent his regards into the howling mask of one of the larger bear- things. He was fighting to get closer and every monster that attacks block his path, hindering his advance.

 

He gripped the skull of one of the Lupines. Tossing it over his shoulder he hoped it would hinder some of the other creatures that were trying to keep pace with him. He whipped the butt of his bolt pistol across the mask of another beast, his teeth were grit in anger; he wouldn’t be able to make it to the Goliath by the time it was through the Gates now opened.

 

He was all too aware of the other two mortals, keeping pace despite his Astartes enhancements. Psykers. They had to be. The Psyker mortal that was of human stock flew overhead- powersword held in both hands and a fearsome howl shrieking from its throat. A beast was thrown high to intercept it by the ape-creatures that charged at the side of the Goliath, and Aranak could not help but admit admiration as the Mortal cut through and vaulted off the remains of the beast to reach its goal instead of wavering. To commit to an attack takes grit- it was good to see a Mortal in possession of such a trait.

Even if they were a heretic.

Lightning scored through the sky, bolts struck the ground, reducing Beasts to ash. His visor tracked the living thunderbolt that vaulted off one of the thrown beasts, and dove towards the ground- aiming to arc over the Goliath- he tracked the mortals descent, and his visors photo-receptors turned opaque for a moment to block the flair of light- In the next moment he watched the same mortal be discarded by the massive beast with a single swing.

* * *

 

Erik could feel the reckless stampede of the Goliath. It managed to shake the walls.

He could hear the deranged crying of its trumpeting roars, and the snarling howls of the beasts that surrounded it. He gripped Rat all the more tightly now. He could hear the thud-gush coughs of Quacker. His Scroll pinged for his attention. He read the message, gulping down nothing in an effort to calm himself. Leonard was asking a lot from him. The Goliath passed through the gates. Its massive curling bone tusks ripped through the concrete on either side of the archway.

Erik stood up, shouldered Rat in its ranged mode, and watched the Goliath trumpet wildly as it took its first stampeding steps into Electrus city.

Several things happened all at once, and it is important to recognize the scenery. There is a maids-café just by the entrance and exit of Electrus city. It is a small red and white shack with curly script on a sign shaped like a flower declaring it to be D’Clairs Affair. There is an outside seating arrangement on a raised deck, tables with umbrellas sit empty and idle, their wooden tops stained with circular mug marks and some crumbs.

Adjacent to D’Clairs Affair on the other side of the street is the Electrus City-guards barracks, row upon rows of cots and the showers are empty, and their occupants spread about the Vale in a series of holding actions against massed Grimm attacks. The Guards would frequent D’Clairs Affair when they had time off, or during times of celebration.

The Café dated back to the erection of Electrus city in some ways, that spot in particular always had been occupied by traveling merchants selling their confectionery ware, soon their carriages lost their wheels and became permanent settlements, and then they expanded from there on. The pioneers and

explorers grew in tandem with the Café; it became a saying that so long as the Café’s doors remained open, all was well in Electrus.

 

It wasn’t the Goliath that changed that, it was Leonard.

 

The front of D’Claris Affair exploded outward in tandem with the front of the Guard Barracks. Red-hot pulses of light seethed violently as there stored energy is unlocked from the prison of time they had been arrested in. Eight blazing spikes of steel nearly two feet in length skewer into the legs of the Goliath, targeting the joints, punching through bone. The second volley destroyed the rest of the Barracks and Café, another dual set of eight from a higher angle punched down into the Goliaths legs, nailing down through its ankles to lock it into the ground like a fully engaged ram bolt. Leonard watched from up the street, Crimes in its spine-hurling ranged form rested in his hands. He could not help but foster a wane smile. Not a single hitch so far.

 

This was easily the first time he’d ever seen a Goliath this close before. Sure, he’s seen pictures of the humongous things, lumbering across the outskirts of the vale in their indomitable herds. He knew just like anyone else that Grimm ‘evolved’ the older they grew, they mutated, gained intelligence. He wondered just how old this Goliath is. It must be ancient; gnarled tusks curled out from its skull, and its size was unlike anything he’s ever seen.

 

There must be some for of limit to how old a Grimm can get, Leonard thought. The Goliath must’ve passed that point where even the insane biology of a Grimm beast was no longer able to regenerate from the damages of age. Its hide was bulging in certain places, its bony armor was corroding, one of its eyes was clearly infected with some form of forest growth, scars ran across the exoskeleton structure of its armor, and it was as if tumors were undulating just underneath the surface of its skin.

 

Honestly, it might as well be a mercy to put this ancient traveler down.

 

He pinged Erik again, and shouldered crimes, the rest of the Grimm were pouring into the city around the pinned Goliath, he let off a shot from Crimes, the burning projectile scorched down the street and blasted through six Beowolves that were working there way over the bulk that was the Goliath, he reloaded and prepared to fire again when it happened.  
  


Erik Fired, a great crimson yellow column of dust and fire blasted out the back of Crimes as a screaming meteorite shot out of its front. The projectile was a dust crystal the size of Leonards’ fist, and it was disgustingly potent. It smashed against the skin of the Goliath just as Erik ducked back behind the Edge. A fireball swept over the Goliath and any ‘Grimm standing nearby, gate-front businesses and shops were incinerated as the blast wave of the Dust-crystal rocket-shot did its work.

 

It was like someone had carved out the back of the Goliath with a massive ice cream scoop. A massive, black smoldering crater crusted with charred meat and crumbling bones had replaced what was one the spine of the beast. The stench was overwhelming at this point; Leonard had to cover his nose with an arm. Chiki and Nicole were soaring above the gate now, blasting away or dive-bombing whatever Grimm were left.

 

He was five feet away from what was easily the biggest kill in his Career as a hunter when he saw it move.

 

It had been lying on its belly, feet still pinned to the ground by Leonards steel spike bolts. It hadn’t been moving, not even breathing, he could tell. Black blood was leaking from its many wounds, a literal waterfall of it had been gushing from the erupted crater on its back.

 

It started to stand back up.

 

Like a drunken marionette with twisted strings, it was being pulled back up, but it was a sick, deliberate movement that it shouldn’t have been capable of. Its back – whatever remained of its back, bowed inwards, no spine there to support the movement, its belly- gravid with pulped organs, dragged along the ground-, it stepped forwards, tearing meat from its front foot as it wrenched itself free of its prison, each leg coming away from the bolts with a sickly sucking squelch.

 

Leonard was too stunned to move when the Goliath swung its trunk straight into him.

* * *

 

She was lucky to be alive. She put it up to skill more than luck, however. Luck was only useful to those who were too weak to live by their own means. An Aura break was traumatizing, it's like having part of your soul torn out and shattered. Such a feeling takes some time to get used to. Nicole has had it happen to her enough that it's no longer a big deal, its just another fracture to her already broken psych. You can't stay sane and fight beasts like the Grimm, doing so is just asking to break down when someone needed you the most.

 

Semblance- her semblance had saved her. Gravity and mass amplification and reduction with a smattering of nullification. The moment that trunk broke through her Aura she was reducing the weight of her sword and unlocking herself from gravity. The speed of her strike increased, she hit the Goliath before its blow could reduce her body into a sack of broken bones and slurried organs. She wasn't intending to kill it; she was using it as a springboard.

 

The blow against the Goliath sent her flying- fast, rocketing out of its way- not fast enough to dodge its strike entirely; she felt it pound into her side- the sour taste of bile in her throat told her all she needed to know. Her ribs were fucked. The pain was pretty bad, disabling even. It was getting harder to breathe.

 

This just pissed her off even more.

 

Nicole slammed into the horde of Grimm like a runaway rail-car, bulldozing into the Ursa pack with little to no grace, just brute force strength. Tyger swung in her hands and evaporated several of the hulking bear-things at once, a single swipe erasing them from the field of battle without so much as an afterthought. Her targets have changed. She had to deal with the fucking small fry now; the Goliath was past the gate and in the city- Leonards’ and Eriks’ problem. The Grimm, they were swarming the gate- threatening to overwhelm Chiki at any given moment, only the steady blasts of Quackers aircannon were enough to hold them back. Nicole had to add her blade to the defense, a single Beowolf was of no threat to a seasoned Hunter, but to a stubborn Civilian too stupid to leave when they had the chance, it was a nightmare. That was to say nothing about an Ursa or Boarbatusk.

 

The Red Giant. 

 

She wasn’t sure where Chiki picked him up, things had gotten a little fuzzy in the heat of the moment but whatever- whoever it was, it was paying off its debt in spades and aces. Every hack from that screaming sword tore open Grimm beasts through proximity alone. It was a beautiful thing to watch in motion, Nicole even found herself entranced more often than not. The bark or bite of a Beowolf usually enough to draw her back to the present, hell it was making her Wet. She wouldn’t mind fucking the skin off of whoever was wearing that weird-ass armor. It has been awhile since she’s had a good fuck- Leonard doesn’t count, especially when she was drunk.

 

Leonard.

 

She understood his logic; his plan had been to open the gates all along. He didn't bother telling her or Chiki for obvious reasons- they would have objected. Chiki would have wanted to save everyone that had remained in Electrus, she wouldn't want the gates to open for fear of even one Grimm getting through and hunting down a family. Nicole herself would object on the basis that she wanted to be the one to kill the Goliath and not be stuck on containment duty. That left Erik, the only one he had bothered to tell, he may have objected, but only silently, the boy was way too much of a demure sissy-faggot to go against Leonard. Leonard knew well enough that Chiki and Nicole would figure his plan out and discern their part in it easily enough. They needed to keep the Grimm from passing through the gates while they were still open, or at least keep as many as they could from getting through. It was a cruel plan that went against his teams’ wishes. It was like all of his plans. His plans got people killed. They put his teammates in danger and they got hurt often.

 

He has never failed a mission.

 

It was the only reason why none of Nicole's reports of Leonards’ misconduct were listened to, Chiki’s were ignored because she was a Faunus, Erik didn't have the balls to file any- Nicole knew that Leonard had likely cut them off awhile ago when Nicole spied on Leonard forcing his dick down Eriks’ throat in some lodge in dingy frontier settlement. It kept on happening every now and again when Leonard thought Chiki and Nicole weren’t around.

 

She wasn’t going to stop it. Couldn’t stop it. If it came to light, it would probably ruin any chance Erik had at scoring with Chiki, and Leonard had more than enough shit to smear on Nicole to make her life a living hell that she’d choose any actual Hell over. It’s not the worst thing he’s held over a member of team L.N.C.E’s head. Leonard had the disturbing propensity of being able to find-or fabricate- any number of dark little secrets on anything or anyone; ex-team member Clarence found that out the hard way. He’s still rotting in a cell somewhere, Nicole broke up with him when she found out that he’d been made an inmates bitch. Total turn off.

 

Something exploded, the Grimm roared, the Goliath trumpeted.

* * *

 

It hurt like hell, but he was still alive. His Aura had kicked in at the last second- shock wasn’t enough to dampen hard-won battlefield instinct. He pushed the pile of boards and roof shingling off of him, Leonard sat up and held still, eyes screwed shut as dots swam in his head, his balance momentarily broken. He’d taken pretty big hits in the past- but nothing like that before.

 

He got to his feet after what felt like a decade, he stumbled out of the hole he had made in some department store corner-shop, Crimes was still in his hands- that was good, he had thought he’d let go when he went flying- being without a weapon was the last thing he needed right now. If it was any consolation to his bruised ego- the Goliath wasn’t looking that well off either, half its trunk was hanging from raw bleeding tissue and muscle- the rest looked like it was already well on its way to rotting away.

 

But it was Moving. It was Still Alive- even after taking the full force of Rats Aura-augmented explosive round- a weapon he’s seen reduce whole packs of Ursa into red craters. Erik was no slouch when it came to handling the heavy weapon he was so fond of, he could place shots accurately from a full field away, he had taken out the damn things spine- but there it was—dragging its organ stuff belly across the ground, black blood trailing behind it with every pull of its limbs, it was a moving carcass.

 

Leonard shouldered Crimes and put a shot into its skull- the steel fiery rod impacted and glanced off the heavy bone armor. He had earned its attention though, and its bale red eyes turned to regard him. No Grimm was ever an intelligent looking creature; this one was no different from any of the others. Its gaze was dead- not feral or wild, but vacant. A regurgitated consciousness; he wondered again, if it was possible for a Grimm Beast to get sick.

 

He reloaded and fired with all the quick grace afforded to a Hunter of his caliber, the second and third shot did less than nothing- it just pissed it off, but there was no way it was ever going to be able to move its bulk fast enough to catch him- Leonard skipped out of the ruined storefront, slamming red steel back into the chamber of his weapon with methodical efficiency, he looked up at the wall- he could see Erik, the Faunus Hunter was still in the process of reloading his weapon, a lengthy and delicate affair that he had no want to rush unless the wall was to be blown to smithereens. The Goliath continued to drag itself forwards; Leonard shifted his aim left, putting down a Beowulf that clawed its way through the opened gates before Nicole or Chiki had a chance to kill it.

 

The plan had now gone to shit, it had revolved around letting the Goliath charge through so it didn’t break down the gates and ruin any future defenses. Once it was through, Leonard would use his semblance to pin it in place while Erik took it out with one hit, Nicole and Chiki would keep any other Grimm from getting in until Leonard could close the gates.

 

He hadn’t counted on the Goliath being able to tank damage like this.

 

The control station for the Gates was just behind and left of the Goliath, it had taken some hits from the blast but it had been made to be able to do so. Leonard mused he’d be able to get in and start the gate closing process before the Goliath could drag its ruined body over quickly enough. That would allow for Chiki and Nicole to help him hammer it and-

 

First the front left, than its front right. Then its spine. This was the order in which Leonard noticed the damage fading. The puncture wounds from Crimes scarred over, warped moldy flesh puckering through the wounds like cooling grease. Then there was the sickening popping sound of a cyst bursting somewhere on its back, yellow pus leaked from the wound like rancid milk, Leonard felt vomit rise up in his throat from the smell alone, the sight is what pushed it over, and his bile burst from his mouth.

 

It started to stand, a great yellow black scab boiling up on its back, Leonard tried to process whatever it was he just saw- and then the trunk regrew, the dead hanging limp end rotted off, a new pink-black and tumorous nose unsheathe in its place.

 

The Goliath began to charge.

 

He almost forgot to dodge, the last second calling his name, he spun out of the way of the stampeding threat. It gored the ground he was just standing on, its quadruple tusks digging trenches in the earth as it plowed past. Leonard spun on a dime and let Crimes speak for him, punching flaming steel into its side; he tried not to comprehend what diabolical internal processes were taking place inside its body right now. The Grimm trumpeted and turned, lolling its oversized head over towards him, mad red eye glaring down at him with that soullessness that chilled him.

 

He dodged it again, its feet ruining the street almost as much as Leonard was, his shots angered it, and every bolt he put into its foot in an effort to slow it down just seemed to piss it off more than ever, its trunk tore the rods loose, flicking them back at him. He was running out of options, he was running out of time.

 

His Aura couldn’t take another hit, and he needed to keep it in range of Eriks weapon; a second shot has to do the trick, of this he was sure, certain desperate to hope that much was true.

 

The Goliath rounded on him quicker than what should have been possible, and its trunk slammed him into the ground, his Aura flashing again so as his own spine doesn’t crumple.

 

The end was staring him in the face, one foot raised, ready to crush his skull underneath in a single second. His last thoughts were of how odd it was, that he wasn't scared at all.

 

Four bleeding holes appeared in the Goliaths mask, centered around its one good eye. He heard the sharp reports of a gunshot. The mask came apart as something inside detonated.

* * *

 

Precision sniper fire. Extreme range. Explosive tips.

 

The thought was instantaneous, it was instinct. Leonard was a Hunter; the traits of combat analysis are drilled into him. The cold, analytical part of his brain took in the sight of four massive ruptures in the Goliaths head, and reduced the variables into their composite facts. Someone is shooting the Goliath, they are doing so with a semi-automatic weapon, they have exceptional marksmanship skill, they are firing from a great distance; their payload is explosive and designed for maximum penetration.

 

Hunters have arrived.

 

Leonard rolled back onto his feet and danced out of the Goliaths reach. Crimes was up and firing, he targeted the gaping wounds in the goliaths head, it was blind, thrashing around, knocking into buildings left and right. As it moved away further from the gate, more clearance emerged for Grimm to rush in. With a start Leonard remembered the remote, and he paled when he saw it lying in with the wreckage of the building he was thrown into. He had to grab it before too many beasts closed in.

 

Another burst of fire from far behind, something slammed into the Goliaths face, two rounds hit the cluster of Tusks on either side of its mouth, the things were blasted onto the street, while a Third round cratered the center of its mask. Already Leonard could see the congealing puss start to reform what was lost, but it wasn’t fast enough.

 

More gunfire from behind, and it was closer this time, louder, Leonard didn’t bother looking back, he focused on firing and reloading, adding his own firepower into the mix. The Goliath staggered backwards, ducking its head as the wounds on its face tore apart- Leonard was sure he could even see the brain- the fleshy grey mass of nerves- and it still continued to function when he put a flaming rod through it, and the sniper put an explosive bullet into it as well. The damn thing refused to die.

 

Erik popped over the ledge, and fired Rat.

* * *

 

Yenald shielded his face from the explosion of gore. The missile launcher or grenade lobber had finished the beast off, but still he put another burst of Kraken penetrators into the monsters head. He had expended most of his supply of Kraken Penetrators, but the result had been most favorable. Votar idled next to him. His shotgun appeared hungry in the young scouts arms. “Aranak,” Yenald looked past the steaming pile of some rotting beast. “He has been busy.”  


“I can hear his shouting from here.” Votar glanced through the open gate- a field of carnage lay strewn past. “He’s garnered some attention from what I can tell.” Votar nodded to the white haired young man, he was furiously reloading a strange crossbow contraption. He scrabbled on hands and knees through the rubble of some ruined building, fishing out a remote cogitator of sorts. He flicked several runes and switches, and Yenald heard the activation of the gates engines, massive gears shifting as they warmed up to the process of closing the gates. He pulled a contraption out from a belt pocket, and shouted into it -a warning of sorts- before he returned it to his belt.

 

Aranak stalked backwards through the cities entrance, chainsword hacking away at the multitude of beasts that thought to pass him. Each step was accompanied by a savage swing that decapitated or eviscerated one of the black shadow creatures. A giant ape thing charged him and he severed one arm and leg before executing it with a terse shot from his bolt pistol, its head came apart from the round. He wasn’t alone; two fast moving shapes flitted up over the wall. Yenald tracked them with the scope of his Stalker for a second before dismissing them. He couldn’t afford hasty action.

 

The shapes of two mortals- young females, one of them wore the obvious traits of an Abhuman- resolved on the cobblestone street. They were tired and covered in gore. Aranak stalked past them, eyeing the massive beast, the two females watched him closely before the fourth one- an Abhuman, the one with the grenade lobber- called down to them from on top of the archway.

 

“Some sort of planetary defense force?” Votar asked, Yenald deigned to say nothing, instead he watched the white haired boy; the mortal stared at them with surprising intensity. He picked up his weapon and made his way towards them. “We will know soon enough.”

* * *

 

 

They were big fuckers- that much was certain. The shortest between the pair was a full two heads taller than Leonard. They weren’t the lanky beanpole kind of tall either; they were jacked to all hell, it was like they had been on a diet of nothing but raw steaks pumped full with all kinds of steroids. They were wearing heavy looking slabs of armor and each one had enough explosives, magazine pouches, shell bandoliers and knives to equip a whole squad of hunters.

They didn’t come across as mindless military meatheads though, Leonard payed careful attention to that, there was a dangerous intellect operating in their heads. The one with the scoped bastard of a weapon was very clearly sizing him up, the one to his right keeping watch- looking past Leonard at whatever antics the rest of his team was getting up to. He payed no attention to the fact that Grimm were still trying to push through the narrowing gap in the gate.

 

He had investigating to do.

* * *

 

“You’re not from around here, aren’t you?” The white haired boy asked.

 

He held himself with the smooth confidence of a Rouge Trader blessed with a silver tongue. Yenald had to be careful despite knowing how best to interact with such individuals. “I would not say that we are.” He answered.

 

The Boy raised an eyebrow, Yenald wondered if it was his accent. The boy then pointedly looked at each of their weapons, eyes lingering on the heavy stave strapped to Yenalds back. “You wouldn’t happen to be Hunters, would you?” He asked.

 

“We are Hunters of a sort,” Votar answered. “We kill whatever threatens mankind.”

 

“Very effectively, I can tell.” Leonard looked back at the felled beast; Aranak was slowly circling around it, chainsword still drawn. One of the two mortals was following him around, badgering him. The other two were beating away the beasts that threatened to push through the closing gates. “Is he with you?” The boy asked, looking directly at Aranak.

 

“He is with us.” Yenald affirmed.

 

“Oh, by the way, forgive my manners.” The Boy extended his hand, a dangerous smile on his face. “My name is Leonard, Senior hunter of team Lance.” He kept his hand extended.

 

Yenald hesitated for a moment, then reached his hand out and grasped ‘Leonards’. He’s seen plenty of Guardsmen do the motion, some form of respectful greeting. He’s never practiced it himself.

 

“I am Yenald, Scout Master of the Suns Descendants.” He replied carefully, “This is my Battle Brother, Votar, also of the Suns Descendants.”

 

Leonard let go, took a step back and appraised both of them, “ ‘Suns Descendants,” He rolled the name in his mouth, trying to mimic their accents. “Can’t say I’ve heard of a Mercenary group with that name.” Yenald was careful not to let his reaction show towards the assumption that the Sun Descendants were ‘Mercenaries.’

 

“You wouldn’t happen to be from Vacuo?” Leonard asked; Yenald shook his head, “ Mistral? Atalas?” Again he shook his head, “So you’re from the Vale,” Leonard crossed his arms. “Not a lot of Merc guilds in the Vale, but not unheard of.”

 

“We’re not Mercenaries,” Votar snapped. Yenald silenced him with a sharp glance.

 

“Your not Mercenaries?” Leonard grinned, brow arched. “Then what exactly are you?” He stuffed his hands into his jackets pockets, kicking at the ground he paced back and forth, not taking his eyes off of the two. It appeared like an accident, but Yenald knew better, when Leonard pointedly stepped on one of his spent bolt shell casings.

 

“Now what do we have here?” He questioned, leaning down he took one hand out and plucked the still hot casing from the street. “Pretty big gun you got there.” He twirled the shell with his fingers, staring at the Aquila for what felt like a minute. “What caliber are you using? Fifty? Sixty?” He looked at the bottom of the shell. “Also, I can’t seem to make out this writing. What language is this?”

 

“You ask many questions.” Yenald says. “I would ask my own.”

 

“Go ahead,” Leonard pockets the shell, he removes the same device from his belt, To Yenalds silent amazement he flicks it open and it projects a small hololith. Leonard runs his fingers across its surface, paying quiet attention to him and Votar. “I’m listening.”

 

“You said you are a Hunter?” Yenald prompts, “What exactly do you hunt?” This earns a reaction. The Boy stops tapping at his hololithic cogitator. He appears angry- confused.

 

“What kind of stupid question is that?” He points the cogitator at them for a moment, Votar tenses, and then he flicks it shut and returns it to his belt. “Grimm- what else is there to hunt?” Yenald narrows his eyes; he plays his fingers over his Bolters grip.

 

“Who do you serve?”

 

“The Council- I’d ask the same question of you.”

 

“Where is this council?”

 

“You didn’t answer my question.”

 

“Do they have an Astropathic Choir? A Space port?”

 

“An Astro-What? A space port?”

 

“Answer the question.”

 

“No, I think I wont.” Leonard pulls out two brass shell casings, one from the street the other- Yenald calculates he can bring his Stalker up in enough time to put a hole in this ‘Leonards’ chest before he has a chance to react.

 

“So you recognize this?” He grins, “Guess where I found it?” Yenald stays silent. “You’re asking about the Council, I think they’d be more than happy to answer whatever questions you’ve got- after they ask some of their own, of course.” He pockets the shells and pats them. “So, you gonna make this interesting, or you gonna drop the artillery and come nice and quiet-“

 

Aranak shouts.

 

Yenald snaps his attention to Aranak, Votar tenses, muscles coiling- finger slipping inside the trigger guard of his shotgun. Aranak is backing away from the massive beast, Yenald can hear the whine of his chainsword as it activates. Leonard shouts something and grabs his crossbow weapon; he’s pointing it at them.

 

Yenald snaps up his stalker bolter and fires.

* * *

 

 

A Tyranid Carnifex comes to his mind as he observes the bulging, ruined mass of flesh and bone.

 

The gates are still under siege but they are closing now- slowly, painfully slowly. But the city will be sealed again in a minute, the siege will break, and Aranak and the two Descendants can continue on their journey to… To… Aranak shakes his head; he does not know where their journey will take them. He prays that it is home.

 

“Hey armor-boy!” Aranak mag-locks his bolt pistol, he brings up his Chainsword and rotates the track. It has chewed through much gore; its length is coated with the filth, and pieces of meat and gristle stick to the teeth in tiny chunks. He notices that two of the already damaged teeth are missing- caught in the bone-mass of one of the beasts most likely.

 

“Hey- Yo! Are you listening?” He quickly unsnaps the waist compartment that houses the necessities for soothing the machine spirit of his weapon as well as its maintenance. He first applies sacred cleansing water and brushes away the offending filth with a silken cloth embroidered with the symbol of the sacred Cog. He reapplies water when necessary.

 

“Can you even hear me? Pay attention damnit!” Cleaned of filth, he does the same to the track, making sure the worst of the gore is gone. He stows the cloth, he’ll clean it later, and now he applies the holy oils, careful to work them into the pernicious gears and corners. The entire track must be doused in order to fully appease the machine spirit.

 

“If you don’t start listening, I’m gonna turn you into scrap metal- you fucking chode!” The teeth snap into place with ease, bright new yellow implements that he coats with oil as well. The ruined teeth he carefully puts in a separate compartment, nothing must go to waist. He twirls his chainsword, every inch inspected. It’s now at optimal operating capacity. He mag locks it and looks down at the Psyker-Mortal.

 

“Feh, that got your attention.” The mortal is smiling; it is also plastered with layers of blood. It scrapes dried gore off its face with fingernails, it spits more of it out, at this sight Aranak is glad for his helmet, it hides his absolute revulsion. The mortal looks appreciatively at his weapon- his chainsword. “That’s a nice piece you got there,” The mortal nods. “What kinda mods you running on it?” It asks.

 

He unlocks his chainsword; he has half a mind to apply it to the mortals face so it doesn’t talk to him anymore. He looks up the street, Yenald and Votar are awake, and he is certain that Yenald would be less than appreciative of his actions. Perhaps he wouldn’t, as he was in conversation with another of the mortals. His stormy expression betrayed how he felt at the moment. He looks back at the Mortal; it is craning its neck to get a better look at his weapon.

 

He does not want to, but he must. “ _What is… a Mod?”_

 

The mortal has a look on its face, he cannot place it. “What to you mean? What are you, new?” It is laughing? “Never mind, stupid assumption. You kicked ass out there, no way you’re a noob.” It plants its sword into the ground before it. “You must be a purist like me, screw all that extra shit.” It slaps that pommel of its blade with clear affection. “Hey, you show me yours I’ll show you mine, whataya’say?” The Mortal tips it forwards towards, it falls towards Aranak, instinctively he catches it- no blade should ever be allowed to touch the ground- especially one that had clear marks of excellent craftsmanship.

 

“Nice right? Her names Tyger- So, hand it over, lemme see that beast you got there.” Was it- Aranak, feels an anger surge through him- was this mortal assuming that it had the privilege to ask him for his _chainsword_ \- He blink clicks the activation rune on his tactica, the electric pulse snaps through his black carapace and quiets him. It forces him to be _reasonable_.

 

He extends it out towards the mortal, gingerly, it was an alien feeling to offer it to anyone other than a battle brother and even then it was foreign. He’d re-apply oils and beg its forgiveness later, he just wanted this interaction to end- the only way out he saw was through cooperation. He sent another two calming electric shocks through his body, he set them to pulse every other second. He let go of his blade.

 

“Oh, shit!” The Mortal snapped, for a second he thought he saw its body glow as it staggered under the weight of his chainsword. To distract himself from the casual heresy he just committed he hefted the Mortals blade- it was light, exceptionally so. It had the same profile of a standard Astartes Pattern power sword but with obvious eccentricities. Segmentation along the length and a various collection of runes and a compartment of some sort on the hilt, it was also designed for cutting and hacking- not stabbing; hence the double-edge. It was a well-worn and well-maintained weapon with obvious craftsmanship, yet still, he felt unclean, just touching it.

 

“Sheesh, this things got crazy stopping power.” The mortal was turning his chainsword over in its hands like it was a new toy- more so it was holding it with disgusting ease- how strong was this mortal? Was it using its psychic powers? It ran a finger across the hand-guard; thumb brushing the Aquilla stamp contemplatively. “Looks familiar,” It muttered before swinging it around with one hand, striking at an imaginary foe. It was a surprisingly fast and fluid movement, it was also a correct one- using the wrist instead of the arms to control the flow of the blade was the principle rule underlying chainswords. “Its got a damn solid feel.” It makes that sound again- laughing, he thinks it is called, it tosses his chainsword back to him; he quickly snaps his hand out and catches it.

 

He pushes the sword back over to the mortal, eager to be rid of it. The mortal glances at what they called the ‘Goliath’. The mortal prods it with the tip of its blade; pestilent yellow bile oozes from where the blade touches. “Fuck ~ me…” The mortal scrunches up its face in disgust. “That is just not right.”

 

The gates have closed, the sounds of the beastly creatures slamming themselves against it can still be heard, but they are muffled sounds. The two mutants walk over, the mortal before him waves casually. They start talking, Aranak ignores them, but he finds it hard to ignore the corpse of the Goliath. It is not because of how big it is, nor how it rots and festers in the dying light as the sun falls behind the mountains.

 

It is because of how _wrong_ it feels.

 

He walks around it, observing it from every angle. Black bile still oozes from the massive crater that was once its back, and the ruined mass of its face. Yenald had spared no effort and putting the beast down. The smashed in holes of Kraken penetrators were excellently placed. Flies and other carrion insects swarm about the corpse in growing numbers. They make an ambient humming.

 

Something of what remained of its face drew his attention. He blink-clicked for his helmet to magnify the image. Above one of the craters from a Kraken bolt he could make out a ruined mess of scrapes. Wrong, he told himself- they were not scrapes; they were _engravings_. The carvings are broken and ruined, but enough of it remains intact. Aranak can decipher three circles intersected by a three-way arrow.

 

Aranak dimly noted how his hearts were starting to beat faster; blood was rushing through his veins. His body was preparing for combat- but he did not know why.

 

That feeling of wrongness was lacing every breath of air he pulled through his helmet, it was like a chill wind- but it was not cold, neither was it warm. It was its own distinct edge that seemed to catch at his teeth.

 

There is a distinct, hateful bite in the air.

_“The bite of corruption…”_ He whispers.

_‘The breath of the Arch Enemy.’_ His memory finishes the phrase for him.

One of the mortals screams.

 

Aranak activates his chainsword, he opens his mouth and-

_As the-_

-he-

_-blighted maggots-_

-shouts-

_-convulse and-_

-that-

_-scream they writhe-_

-Chaos-

_-through festering-_

-is-

_-flesh of sacred rot-_

-here.

_-they will be reborn._

* * *

 

Nodules and Ulcers. Rot and Grime. Lesions and Entropy.

The words whisper in her mind in that burbling order, over and over again.

Chiki was screaming. Nicole couldn’t shut her eyes. There is a face in the corpse of the Goliath. There is a face smiling back at her with rotten teeth. A single bulbous eye yellow with cataracts looks at her.

 

She starts to scream.

 

A hand pushes through the skin of the Goliath; the flesh peels away, coming apart like rotting tallow. Organs and fetid blood mix on the pavement as something emerges from the now open wound in the creatures’ side- an unnatural birth from a rotting womb.

 

Things- small, diseased things crawl out from the open back of the goliath corpse. They make sounds- it sounds like laughter, like giggling, squealing pitched voices chittering together. They crawl out of the corpse like ants spilling out of a crack in a wall. Like maggots bursting out from a dead hog.

 

A sharp crack- part of the face she is transfixed by is blown away- even as a single eyed humanoid horror rises to its feet, smiling -with half of its face gone- in greeting; it looks almost happy to see her.  


It blinks.

 

She screams.

 

* * *

 

Leonards’ mind grinds to a halt. The world had stopped making sense about five minutes ago and he’s watching it slip deeper into an un-reality. The Goliath corpse shudders, bones knit back together as flesh sloughs off and curdles on the street, small babbling little imp-things scuttle out of the mire. The Bone-creature is slamming against the gates.

 

Nicole is screaming, crawling along the ground, bleeding from her eyes and ears.

 

Chiki is running; she stumbles along the ground, trying to rush into a building- any building.

 

Leonard can’t see Erik.

 

The armored giant is fighting. He is outnumbered three to one. He is fighting creatures strung together out of rotting flesh and maggots. They are wielding swords of rusting metal. He is moving with fantastic speed, every chop of his sword tears away strips of decayed meat. They close in around him- these marionette men being jerked along on invisible strings, swords flailing wildly they cleaver down and the giant ducks, twists, and parries in increasingly desperate maneuvers.

 

The Man with the shotgun is cornered, the imps surround him, he blasts away with his weapon and clears great swath with ever pull of the trigger but the tide of hellion things just seems to bubble back up with a giggle and coo. Before long he is trapped; they have him against the side of a building. He jumps up and grabs a windowsill with one hand, they cluster around the ground below him.

 

The Man with the oversized sniper is singing; he is shooting at the same time, the imp’s cluster but they do not get near. They are holding tiny hands to tiny ears and squealing. The Mans voice holds a resonance, Leonard cannot understand the words but the power of his voice, the assured confidence, the resonate invocation and abjuration of the reality-crushing creatures is enough to hold the tide back.

 

Leonard looks down. There is a trio of the imps looking up and staring at him. They are pulling at his pant leg. They are laughing, giggling and pointing up at him.

 

Leonard screams.

* * *

 

 

Chiki is choking on the smell; Quacker is useless in her hands as she tries to find untainted air. Each breath she takes is clogged with corpse-stench, the disgusting smell of a fermenting old abattoir. She crawls along the ground, dragging her hand against the wall.

 

There is the sounds of flesh being hacked, the gurgle of a blender chewing through meat, the ceaseless sound of a shotgun being racked and reloaded. Someone is shouting in a language she cannot understand.

 

The Grimm- what once may have been Beowolves and Ursas- they pour through shattered gates- the massive Grimm skeleton rattles, it rocks back and forth, explosions blow parts of it away. The Grimm- they scuttle underneath its steps- they are changing- small creatures latch onto them and they bite and they claw, and they chew and they crawl _inside-_

 

Rotting flesh, boils and tumors, cysts expanding over eyes-

 

They refuse to die when killed.

 

Something is burning- the scent of oil, of gasoline.

 

There is fire- there is lots of fire, something explodes, more shouting-

 

She remembers screaming; not knowing whom it was she wanted to listen.

* * *

 

  
The sun has risen. A blanket of clouds obstructs the sky, but it will not yet rain.

  
That is good.

 

The fire needs more time to burn, more time to purge and scour the taint.

 

They are running; they have been running for three hours. They eat up the miles. A dirt path gives way to a wide stone carriageway. There is a roadside rest stop; it offers a shaded bench under an old pine.

 

They stop and collect their thoughts.

 

A black column of smoke rises in the distance behind them. Yenald is watching it with intent. Aranak begs forgiveness from his chainsword. Its track is jammed with rot.

 

Votar breaks the silence.

 

“What if it is not enough?”

 

“It should be.”

 

Votar looks back at Yenald. “Are you sure?”

 

Yenald said nothing. His hands clenched.

 

“We should go back and be certain.” Votar did not make any effort to move. “In case… in case one slipped through our grasp.”

 

“We cannot go back.”

 

“We can use the Melta Bomb, cause an avalanche upon the cliff and bury the entire city.”

 

Aranak stares at Votar; Yenald wonders his expression for a moment.

 

“It would take more than a single Melta Bomb.”

 

 _“What manner of beasts were they? Exactly?”_ Aranak interrupted them both, staring at the smoke rising from a burning city. _“I have only recently encountered such creatures. I know they hail from the warp and serve the Arch Enemy but that is the extent of my Knowledge.”_

 

“The Fifth Company has fought Chaos.” Yenald sighs. “Seconded to an Inquisitor. Dangerous man, knew many secrets, and revealed several. Chaos is not just merely _used_ by the forces of the Arch Enemy- Chaos _uses_ them as well. Chaos is an entity in of itself. Malign, corrupting, intelligent. Mortals merely act as its heralds, puppets to be thrown away.”

 

_“Go on.”_

 

“Daemons.” Yenald says, and the word seems to chill the early morning air. “Manifestations of the Warp. Will made real of the dark masters that rule over it. They are evil beasts that corrupt reality. They warp whatever they touch. They twist the minds of those who see them. Faith is the only shield proof against them.”

 

“Faith.” Votar nods, “You were chanting the same hymns the Inquisitor spoke.”

 

“Psalms of banishment.” Yenald looks to Votar. “They weaken the hold a Daemon has on Reality. The Inquisitor spoke such words against Daemons possessing the bodies of Mortals- Daemons cannot manifest in our world without a host.”

 

“ _The forest creatures…”_

“Aye, so long as it anchors them in the materium.”

 

“ _What weapons are effective against such spawn?”_

“Fire.” Votar says simply. “Hence why we burned the town with oil.”

 

“We should have burned the bodies we arrived with.” Yenald says. “We should have destroyed the ruins of the chapel.”

 

“ _What good would that have done us?”_

 

“It would have cut the infection from its source, denied the beasts of the Arch Enemy passage.” Yenald grimaces and stands up, returning to the path. “We continue. We must locate some means of communication and travel. This world is likely tainted.”

 

“You mean-“

 

“What transpired on that world will likely happen to this one.” Yenald grimly acknowledges.

 

“You would have us leave?” Votar sounds incredulous; Yenald whips around, eye glinting with steel.

 

“Do you see any other option, Brother?”

 

Votar stiffens, “Scout Master, I-“

 

“Answer the question.”

  
“We warn the people.” Votar replies. “Tell them of the Daemons, of the threat facing them. That way they will be ready for them.”  


Yenald relaxes somewhat. “The Nature of the Arch Enemy is a closely guarded secret of the Inquisition. What I have told are words not meant for Mortal man to know. Doing so would invoke the wrath of the Ordos.” Yenald shakes his head. “Even if we were to tell them, I’d fear that they would not listen to us, or call us fools.”

 

“So we leave them to their fate.” Votar grimaces, staring at the ground. He accepts it as such, but does not relish in such a fact. Yenald says nothing in return. He motions for them to follow.

 

“The White haired boy mentioned something of a Council.” He says. “We would do best to find them.”

 

Votar follows after Yenald. Aranak stands still. He does not move. He curls his fists and stares ahead.

 

_“I will not walk away. Neither shall I allow you.”_

Yenald stops, he turns to face Aranak. His thoughts mirror his face in the visage of a brewing storm.

 

 _“We brought that creature with us.”_ The assault Marine rumbles. _“If what you say is true, then our trespass led it here.”_ The Assault Marine, normally raging and brash, is disturbingly taciturn. He looks at Yenald and Votar, judging them both. _“That may be the first Daemon-thing of many to follow. These Mortals cannot fight against such creatures.”_

 

“Why do you care at all?” Votar asks. “You hold no love for these people.”

 

Aranak fixed Votar with a glare. “ _Consider the larger picture. If this world is lost to such corrupted beings, it is one more world lost to the Emperors Light.”_ Aranak slowly shook his head. “ _We must deny the machinations of the Arch Enemy at every turn. That is our purpose, that I what we were created for. Victory or Death.”_

 

“He is not wrong.” Yenald mutters softly.

 

“Then what must we do?”

 

“We have several choices.” Yenald began. “We destroy the gate ourselves. Or we beseech whom governs these lands to do so.”

 

 _“We are woefully underequipped to fight such beasts alone.”_ Aranak grates the words out like they were a personal offense. “ _Cooperation with local soldiery may be in our mutual interest.”_

“That would involve convincing whatever authorities they have.”

 

“ _I see no other option with as high a likelihood of success. It is simple: We need manpower to fight any other Daemons that manifest.”_

“This road will lead us to a town. We can search for this ‘Council’ there.”

* * *

 

The nightmare ends and the sun rises.

 

Chiki is shaking, shivering despite the flames that tear through Electrus city. She is holding onto Erik with all that is left of her strength. He is crying. She is crying. They are huddled up against the wall.

 

Nicole is catatonic. She drags her nails over her face. She is trying to blind herself.

 

Leonard is mumbling something under his breath, he loads and unloads Crimes, he keeps checking everything around him; he is jumping at shadows.

 

Clouds suffocate the sky. The city is on fire. The air smells rancid. Despair. Death. Decay.

 

The gates to Electrus city are torn open. Buildings are in ruins. Twisted corpses- the corpses of Grimm beasts- or what may have once been Grimm- are left as charred heaps in a smoldering city. Blood runs thick from still bleeding corpses. Chiki pulls herself closer to Erik; he wraps his arms around her all the more tightly. Fresh sobs wrack his fragile body.

 

Nicole is shuddering, Leonard blinks; he rises from his knees to stand.

 

“T-Team…” He begins; his voice is soft in comparison to the crackling of the fire and collapsing buildings. “Report in…” He commands, clicking open his Scroll. He gets only perfunctory whimpers and strangled murmurs. He is bleeding from his ears.

 

“T-Team!” He shouts now, Crimes clacks against the street with each step- he has a limp. He first approaches Nicole. Tyger is now held close to her chest, her eyes are wide open and she’s rocking back and forth, some horrible nonsense-talk is spilling from her mouth, her eyes are bloodshot and her complexion is pale like new ice. Blood and guts cover the ground around her, gory gouges run down her face, her own blood and skin is built up underneath her cracked nails.

 

He hesitates, unwilling to grab her by the shoulder, afraid that she’ll bite his hand off in her current state. He shakes his head, and instead picks up a board. He cracks it against the back of her skull, bits of wood go flying. Nicole screams, blood drips down the back of her neck. She blinks- she stares up at Leonard with a terrified fury.

 

“Get up,” Leonard swallows,” Get the hell up, we’re moving.”

 

For once, Nicole doesn’t argue, she struggles to a standing position, and doggedly follows Leonard around the charred Goliath skeleton; he tries not to look at the charcoal bits of meat still hanging off of its ribs.

 

“Get up,” He rasps to Chiki and Erik, both of whom are still entangled in each other’s arms, each one sobbing. Chiki stays huddled with Erik, she’s shaking, Erik almost seems comatose. He doesn’t look like he’s still of this world. The rotting stench of whatever foulness that perforated what may have once been grimm coats the air with a heavy saccharine taint. It is a struggle to choose between suffocating or sucking in another rancid breath.

 

“We…” Leonard can’t find the words, he fumbles open his Scroll. “We need… we’re going to…” He flicks it open for several seconds. He closes it. “We need to move, we gotta go…” He keeps trying to not stare at the Skeleton- at the bodies lying around it, malformed and twisted beyond natural shape, there is fire still burning throughout the city- he hopes it will engulf this place in its entirety. He never wants to see, never wants to hear about Electrus city ever again.

 

“Get-up!” Leonard shouts, his own voice alien to his ears for a moment- who is that frantic fool that he hears? He recognizes it as himself, but he does not care- he has to get out of this city, away from this filthy abattoir. “Get the fucking hell up!” He’s being ignored. “Will you shut up and move you fucking vermin!” He grabs Chiki by the shoulder, digging his chipped nails into her flesh and tearing her away from Erik- he doesn’t see the blow until it doubles him over, her knee impacts his gut and the air is driven from his lungs. He’s on his knees, Chiki’s on her back, sobbing into her hands, Erik’s trying to pick her back up and Nicole is standing there; staring, red raw tracks down her face where her nails have stripped away her flesh as she tried to claw out her eyes.

 

“Fucking cunt!” Leonard gags as he sucks in air, the stench burning his tongue- he shudders, doubles over and vomits- it tastes like Caramel- he vomits again. He ignores how tears stream from his eyes- the world doesn’t make sense anymore, no one is listening to him, he’s the fucking leader of team lance and they aren’t listening to him- better just to kill them all. He grabs crimes, the urge to kill rising in his chest even as he vomits again, his eyes watering, ears burning and nose bleeding from the fucking _stench_ -

 

He stands, bile dripping from his lips, his mind is in a haze, he slips his finger through the trigger guard, limbs shaking, Erik’s holding Chiki- she’s thrashing like a fish on a hook, easy shot- bolt right through the chest, kill the fucking animal faggots with one shot, and then plug Nicole- let the corpses burn, blame it all on those fucking mongrels from before- Just let it all burn, let it all just fucking burn, fucking let them die- kill them and leave it all- start over with some other faggot hunter rookies, maybe even plow one of the little cunt fuck-toys they seem to be training en masse’-

 

His Scroll rings. The sound is alien enough to drop Crimes back to his side. He’s frozen for a moment- that urge to kill is not new to him, not being in control of it is. They didn’t see him; they’re all broken up still, and braying like sheep. “Nicole-“ He snaps, his voice is still shaky, he’s still out of control- it scares him. Leonard snarls, he eyes Nicole, still standing there all-vacant eyed like some sort of Doll. He grabbed her by the arm and shook her. “Nicole.” Leonard snaps.

 

She didn’t look away from whatever hell she was remembering. “Remember that one Saturday?” He whispers into her ear. “Remember that Scroll you thought you got rid of before you left the bar?” Something stirs in her eyes. “I thought so. Get to work.” She shudders as he lets her go.

 

“Get those shits back up.” She makes no effort to look like she’s heard him, he doesn’t care. He can hear the sound of a fist meeting flesh and that I all he needs to know that Nicole is under his leash again. He steps away, nearly tripping over the bodies- he tries not to look at the Skeleton still charred black with rancid meat- he shudders, wipes the puke from his face, and answers his Scroll. He whishes he hadn’t

 

He clicks the scroll off two minutes later- he’s cursing, he’s angry, he kicks a Grimm corpse out of the way- the tentacles spewing from its stomach flop and coil- Chiki is standing, Erik is being pulled upright by Nicole, Chiki has a bruise across her face that is new, Nicole is bleeding from a cut on her lip- she doesn’t seem to notice, she doesn’t seem to care.

 

“Okay- alright- yeah,” Leonard begins, he pauses- he vomits again, nothing comes up but bile and tears. “Fuck- fuck,” He swears, “We- we gotta move.”

 

“I want to go home-“ Chiki moans,

 

“Shut the fuck up you cunt!” Leonard screams, “Just fucking shut up!” Spittle flies from his lips. “I don’t got time for your fucking shit!” Leonard closes his eyes, squeezes them shut as a migraine starts to pulse behind them. “Just shut up and fucking- just fucking listen,” He chokes down another breath. “We- We- gotta- a, uh- we’re goin’ after those fucks from before- council- council wants them-“

 

“Fuck you,” He doesn’t recognize the voice at first because he’s only ever heard it speaking with subservient whimpers and affirmations, or otherwise not at all.

 

“The fuck you-“

 

“Fuck you, fuck the council- I’m not going,” Erik bites each word out, he’s unsettlingly composed- he’s in shock- Leonard thinks, “I’m going home, I done with today, I’m taking Chiki home, this is too much!”

 

“Fucker, you go home when I say you do-“

 

“No!” Erik shouts, tears are running from his eyes. “No, fuck you!” He cries. “Not any more! Didn’t you see any of what just happened? I can’t go through- not again!”

 

Leonard wants to ball his fist up and cram it down that little fuck-boy’s throat. It took a lotta effort to make it so that little goody-two-shoes fuck didn’t talk back to him, that he knew his place. One botched mission- and it all goes up.

 

“Nicole.” He snarls, he doesn’t have to say anything else.

 

Nicoles fist hammers into Eriks gut, and her uppercut knocks a tooth loose and her elbow slams his head back down into her knee, breaking his nose. Leonard hears Chiki scream, that’s good. He gets a hang on his breathing, he pulls his shirt up over his nose as he watches Nicole ride the Faunus boy to the ground, fists smashing into his face, knee digging into his chest. Chiki tries to pull her off- she backhands her away.

 

This is good, this is right, he’s in control- he’s the team leader.

 

Nicole drives her fist into Eriks nose and Leonard is pretty sure he hears something else break. Nicole is crying, salty tears burn in the fresh gauges on her face.

 

He’s in control. This is good. He’s in control. He’s team leader

 

An empty Bullhead transport lands just outside of the city.

 

He’s in control.

 

Nicole smashes Eriks head against the ground, he mercifully falls unconscious

 

He’s in control.

 

Leonard forces them into the Bullhead, no one asks questions; they are all too tired. The onboard medical kits are ransacked for bandages and stimms. Nicole rips open a Trauma kit and snaps her ribs back into place. Aura would heal the rest.

 

He’s in control.

 

Leonard stares down at the orders on his Scroll. There are just three words: Locate and Terminate.

 

He’s in control.

* * *

 

It is called Vale City. It reminds The Descendants of home. The grand city of Cataracata- the first settlement of man to grace the world of Caltoria. Surrounded on every side by endless forests that twist into dark jungles, bold pathways snake into those same forests uncaring of the dangers that haunt them.

 

This city, the ‘City of Vale,’ is of a strange resemblance. The low slung houses of rock and wood, the spattering of trees lining the streets, the rising towers near the center, a conglomeration of various districts and markets.

 

It is of such likeness to Cataracata, Votar can almost smell thyd-roots smoking over communal fires and the sweet juices sizzling down onto hot coals; hear the sound of minstrel knights singing in the streets; see young maidens releasing floating strimble-berries with ribbons tied to their stems into the evening sky. A smile broadens his face.

 

Yenald sees a pale facsimile fenced by high walls, paved streets lined with rockcrete sidewalks and electric lights. Strip malls and convenience centers with flashing signs and adverts. People choke the streets with ground cars and traffic; there is the scent of fumes and stench of technology. There is nothing sacred about this city; it has not even a fraction of the spirit of the villages of Caltoria. It is cold and soulless, like the cities of the Tau.

 

It is different this time, people stop and stare. They turn to look from tables and conversations, they set down books and hololithic machines, they point and gawk like mortal children trying to get their parents to stop and stare at an outlandish creature. Every street, every store, every corner, the reaction does not vary.

 

It is common for the mortal folk of the Imperium to be awed by the sight of an Astartes Warrior. They are beings of legend manifested in flesh and metal. They are tall and imposing, they are fearsome and menacing, dominating the foreground of any given area. It was not like this before. Yenald thinks back to the dead city, ‘Electrus’, he recalled its name. The people there would sometimes look and point, but they would not stare.

 

On more than one occasion Yenald would see several of the mortals point their strange hologram devices at them and track their movement down the street. Yenald was tempted to snatch one out of the hands of any who got to close. Votar tightened his grip on his shotgun.

 

 _“They flock like vermin.”_ Aranak said exasperated. Votar nods.

 

“Ignore them for the moment.” Yenald cautions, though his patience is wearing thin.

 

“Do we know where we are going?” Votar asks. Yenald shakes his head.

 

“Not entirely.” He admits.

 

Aranak snorts, “ _Lost, are we?”_ It takes a moment for Yenald to realize he was laughing. “ _So it is that we find ourselves back where we started.”_

 

Yenald looks at Aranak with an unreadable expression, Votar recognizes it, it is as close to anger as the Scout Master would visibly get.

 

Yenald points, looking away from the Assault Marine he directs there attention to a cluster of high-rise buildings in the distance, deeper into the city. “There.” He declares. “We’ll look for the ruling nobility of this world there.” Yenald regards Aranak. “Better?”

 

 _“Much obliged.”_ Says Aranak.

 

“Some of these buildings are damaged.” Votar speaks aloud. He is casting his trained eyes over the murals and buildings of the city. He can easily make out the pockmarks in walls left by heavy caliber infantry-killing rounds. It is only compounded by how the cities inhabitants had moved plants and statues in front of these wounds, covering them up in an effort to forget them. Wanting the past to be left behind instead of facing it head on.

 

“These people have lived through a war of some kind.” Votar mutters.

 

Yenald nods. “A recent skirmish.”

 

“Whatever it was, it nearly broke these people.” Votar was not wrong. Some of the civilians seemed to go through the motions of their day in a seemingly suspended state of shell shock. It only became more obvious the closer they came to the distant tower. The signs of old battle grew with it. Buildings recently repaired, streets newly paved over but still ruined in places, stores and shops under renovation, these were the raw rounds of a city in healing.

 

Some wounds remain open.

 

“Is that supposed to be our destination?” Votar narrowed his eyes. It was just beyond city limits, overlooking a seaside cliff. A grand main entrance leading up to a massive tower surrounded by smaller buildings. In better times it would be the center point of any city.

 

It looked like an abandoned battlefield.

 

Arbites, or whatever passed for Arbites on this world, had set up roadblocks. Gun emplacements faced outwards towards the structure and the road leading to it. There were enough guns to make an Imperial Guard trench look insignificant in comparison.

 

“I believe we have found the source of the disturbance…” Votar grunted.

 

Yenald unclipped his Visor from his belt and held them to his eyes. “It would seem so.”

 

“ _Extensive structural damage.”_ Aranak relays to them what his helmets optics can make out of the distant tower. “ _Cracks consistent with blunt force…”_ He pauses. “ _What appears to be a giant stone Wyrm of some sort… More of those creatures milling about the courtyard.”_ He grunts and looks away. Yenald re-clips the visor glasses to his belt.

 

“We will look elsewhere.” Yenald states. By now the Arbites manning the blockade had grown aware of them. They were the only other people minding this part of the city. “Let us leave.” Aranak spared one last glance at the distant ruins. It gave off an aura of menace that he couldn’t shake. Part of him wanted to rip through the line of Arbites, storm the ruins, and rend asunder whatever foulness had crept into such a place. Instead he turned away and walked with the Scouts. It set his mind at ease, the fact that he somehow knew that he would be here again in the future, and at that time he would have no reason to walk away.

* * *

 

They convened their search under a tree in a public park. The staring was no less infrequent, nosey civilians walked by, pointed, held up unfamiliar pieces of technological sorcery, there was no ignoring them, but the Marines tried regardless.

 

“We will have to ask.” Votar said. Aranak stared down at the scout marine who was sitting cross-legged on the grass, his shotgun was in his lap, he was meticulously cleaning it. Yenald stood away, Staff in hand with one end planted into the ground. His eyes were closed.

 

“Yes.” Yenald said.

 

“If you agree, then why do you hesitate?” Votar asked. Pausing his cleaning momentarily.

 

“I know not how.” Yenald admitted. “Rarely speak to Mortals.”

 

_“As do I.”_

 

Votar shakes his head. “To think that my young age would play into an advantage for once.” He sighed. He racks the slide of his shotgun; it moves smoothly and clicks into place. Votar gingerly feeds the shell well with rounds he cannot afford to waste. He has precious few left. “Shall I attempt to converse?”

 

_“By all means.”_

 

Votar stands, slinging his shotgun across his back. He searches the park, eyes shifting over a field of targets he must engage for entirely unusual reasons.

 

“The Emperor Protects…” He finds himself muttering. He hesitates for only a second more before stalking away from his comrades. He is entirely all too aware of the stares he is receiving. Some in fear, some in confusion or perplexed interest. He does not blame them, for he is an entirely alien entity to them.

 

He is big, nearly eight feet tall with muscles rolling across his body like a stormy sea, his armor was marked with claw scratches and gouges, he was shrouded in weapons and wargear, his face was smeared with soot and paint. He was every bit an intimidating presence.

 

So naturally he walked towards the only person who was not intimidated.

 

Sitting on a park bench under a tree next to a dirt path, she had a book in her hands and she was dutifully reading it. He stopped short of approaching her, taking a moment to analyze what perhaps may lead to their destination should he not stumble.

 

Around six feet, well dressed, blond hair tied back into a bun with a braided lock running down the right of her face. Pale skin, green eyes hiding behind glass lenses. Female, if he were to judge correctly going by the mounds of fat hanging off her chest- Votar never quite understood why mortals were so found of those things.

She had green eyes. Striking green eyes, those eyes were now suddenly locked onto him with a razors intensity. For a moment, Votar forgot that he was supposed to talk with her, and instead felt his body tense in preparation for pitched combat. It was only for a moment, he didn’t even move, and then he realized that he had been tricked. Played.

  
This woman had read him like the book in her hands, measuring his reactions with just a simple focused glance that caught him off guard. .

 

It had been quite some time since he had been an initiate, but today he felt just like one. Shamed by a mortal human.

 

“Can I help you?” She closed her book, and crossed her legs. She regarded the Scout Marine with a singularly tired glance that spoke of too many days without sleep and only nightmares to greet her every time she closed her eyes. “Hold that thought,” She raised a hand- he hadn’t been about to say anything anyways. “Let me guess- Mercenaries here to ‘take care of the Grimm problem,’ or something like that.” She sighed and fixed Votar with a look that could’ve castrated an Ogryn. “Am I close?”

 

Votar looked around; glancing back at Aranak and Yenald- he suddenly felt that this had been a terrible idea. He wouldn’t be surprised if Aranak was mocking him right now under that helmet of his. He looked back at the woman. “I am… sorry, I do not understand. I am not a mercenary.”

 

She made a point of rolling her gaze up and down his heavily muscled form, eyeing each one of his weapons. “Right,” She drawled, “You’re not a mercenary… I completely believe you.”

 

“That is good,” Votar said, somewhat relived. For an Astartes to be received as a filthy renegade, selling skill for blood and gold, it is one of the highest insults. “I am in need of assistance.”

 

His response seemed to have confused her, she fixed him with look before she set her book to the side and quirked an eyebrow. “You need _my_ help?” She asked.

 

“Yes. I require your help. Did I misspeak?” It had only been a day since Votar had fully understood this Language, there were still parts of it he still had difficulty comprehending. “I am unfamiliar with this language.”

 

“You’re doing fine,” She slowly replied. “What do you need?” Foreigners were showing up in Vale almost every day, mostly they were Merc’s and privet security firms looking to make a mint in securing the CCT for the Council or policing Vale City. That Bitch Salem was still holed up in the ruins of Beacon Academy with her army of Grimm. Every attempt to drag her out has been met with stunning losses; even the Atlesians had been met with failure after failure. They were almost having it worse than Vale; their Knights and Paladins going berserk had dropped their market value almost into nothing.

 

“My comrades and I have business to discuss with your Council. Where can we locate them?”

 

“What are you wishing to discuss with the council?” She asked.

 

Votar shifted his attention back to Yenald. “Various things.” He said, “Is there a palace of governance where we can locate them? Can you direct us?”

 

“I can certainly direct you,” She said, she hitched her right leg up, hand casually slipping around a long hafted stem of a riding crop. “Although it is quite certain that there is no way that they would be willing to meet you.”

 

“Why would that be?”

 

“The council are quite busy with repairing Vale, though I think you are already well aware of that.” She gestured around them, “As for the second reason.” She now gestured at him and his comrades. “If you are not mercenaries than you must be thugs- some of the most overt I’ve seen- hired to attack the Council and further disrupt the rehabilitation of Vale City.”

 

“Why would you think that?” He wasn’t sure if to be insulted or not.

 

“You’re wearing more kit than half a Hunter team put together. You practically _scream_ military.” She snapped. “No one in their right mind would openly meet with you.”

 

“You are meeting with me, I do not understand.”

 

“I haven’t been in my right mind for several weeks,” She huffed. “Regardless, I do not believe I got your name?”

 

“My name is Votar,” He quickly answered.

 

“Glynda Goodwitch,” she nodded, not looking at Votar. “Why do you need to meet with the Council?”

 

“It is an urgent matter.” Votar explained no further, he was becoming anxious. He calmed himself with a breath.

 

“So, can’t you just file a request or report it?” She cut him off before he could reply, “Although, that would likely take several weeks to even be seen by someone, considering the ongoing crisis…” She glanced back at Votar. “What is the exact nature of this matter?”

 

“It is not for me to say,” Votar was beginning to wear thin on his patience. “Could you please direct me to where your Council convenes at the very least?”

 

“You could find that on your own, as for meeting with the council- I am certain that they would not let men like you meet with them.” She pointedly stared at the rather large knife on his hip. “Especially if you are foreigners. That is just how it is these days.”

 

“Security is not an issue,” Votar insisted, he pondered if he should have changed his words when ‘Glynda’ fixed him with another icy stare.

 

“I think you should tell me why you want to meet with the Council,” She coolly asks. “It seems urgent.”

 

Votar looked back to Yenald. While not looking directly at them, the Scout Master was clearly listening. He subtly shook his head.

 

“I think that would be unwise.” Votar replied, “I must leave,” He moved to walk away when the woman grabbed him by his arm- she was surprisingly strong.

 

“Hold it.” She snapped. “Where are you going?”

 

Yenald raised his head and glanced over. Votar could tell that Yenald was ready to pull his Stalker at a moments notice. Votar shook his head.

 

“You would do well to release me.” Votar demanded; he looked down at the slight mortal woman. “I have been very polite.”

 

“You’re armed and asking to see the council for unspecified reasons.” Glyndas’ voice was like a cutting edge. “Why shouldn’t I notify the authorities, or just apprehend you myself?”

 

Votar cocked his head to the side slightly; he regarded the woman again with a more analytical view. She was clearly athletic and had a solid grasp of combat training- to what extent he wasn’t exactly certain. “Have I somehow offended you?” He asked, he tried pulling his arm away- lightly –he did not want to harm this woman.

 

“You’re dangerous.” She said. “I don’t know who you are, or why you’re here, but you’re armed to the teeth and possibly threatening the Council.”

 

“I have no intention of harming anyone unnecessarily.”

 

“Unnecessarily?”

 

“My Brothers and myself will defend ourselves against aggression,” He flexed his arm, muscles rippling underneath armor and skin. Her small hand could _feel_ the coiled strength underneath- like a dormant dragon just waiting to be woken by an insignificant thief. She didn’t flinch or blink in the slightest. “This can count as aggression,” Votar said. “Please release me. I must go.”

 

She held on for a second, gears turning in her head behind narrowed eyes. Her glasses caught the light of the morning sun and gleamed for a moment before she looked back up at Votar and let go of his arm. “I have connections in the council. I could arrange a meeting.”

 

“This is true?” Votar asked, turning and facing Glynda.

 

“It is.” She nodded, picking up her book. “I could have you meeting with the council in likely two hours, they’d need to know the reason for shoveling everything else aside. However, I would have to be with you, and you’d likely have to drop the weapons.”

 

“These are your terms?”

 

“If that is what you want to call them, than you are free to do so.” She shrugged.

 

Votar glanced back at Yenald, she followed his gaze, “He’s your leader?” Votar didn’t respond. Yenald shrugged.

 

“We’ll consider your offer.” Votar nodded.

 

“How urgent of a matter is it?” She asked in response. The woman was quite curious.

 

“It is of significant enough importance that we’d consider your proposal.” Votar walked away, she noticed that his footsteps were nearly non-existent for a man as large as he.

 

Glynda watched the two men converse, while the Mech stood ominously just behind them. Glynda couldn’t shake the crawling feeling she had about them. There was something that was just so fundamentally inhuman about ‘Votar.’ They spoke quickly and quietly and then they were off. She watched them go for a minute before she sat back down. It was a beautiful day and she wasn’t about to waste it, even with the emotional cloud hanging over Vale City. The future was uncertain as ever- the CCT was down, information was trickling through at a snails pace, Beacon was in ruins and in the hands of Salem, the artifact…

 

Glynda reopened her book. She tapped her foot. She sighed heavily. She took out her Scroll after she saw the strange men leave. She dialed a number and put it away.

 

Remnant would know soon enough.

…

Nicole didn’t want to talk. She didn’t want to say anything; she didn’t want to speak to anyone.

 

The bullhead bucked again and blood smeared across her hands, leaking through the bandages. She had torn her face up pretty good. She didn’t look forward to checking a mirror any time soon. The pain was needed, she needed it now; she dealt with it and let it cure her.

 

She had hit one of her own. Not out of anger, not out of any good reason, nor had she done it lightly.

 

She’d hit Chiki, and _mauled_ Eric.

 

By Leonard’s orders.

 

Nicole was afraid, for the first time in awhile.

 

Chiki was still crying, Erik was unconscious, and Leonard was checking his watch, idling by the time by playing some stupid Mobi game on his scroll.

 

She really did want to kill him.

 

Team Lance was fucked up. In more ways than one, but right now, they were running on fumes. Injuries and concussions out of places nobody expected.

 

The Bullhead touched down hard like they always do. The ramp dropped and they tramped down it like zombies. Chiki was carrying Erik, Leonard had his hands in his Pockets, Nicole kept the bandages against her face; peeking out to make sure she wasn’t tripping.

 

The Lodge owner didn’t even ask them to pay.

* * *

 

 

Astartes Assault Shotgun, Golgotha Pattern: 8-Gauge selective-action with a twelve round internal magazine with a sliding lock function allowing for clip reloads. Positive weight; thirty-five pounds, negative weight, twenty-eight pounds; full length is three feet six inches. Primary ammunitions are man-stoppers, slug rounds, flak-shot, drakes’ breath, and Auger Shot. It is a fine weapon, one that has served Votar well for many years. Reliable, powerful, and simple in function, it is as robust as a weapon can get in many ways.

 

Votar has finished cleaning it as the sun rises, there is a fine fog about the city, drifting through the alleys and streets like a white carpet of floating silk. It pours down over the sides of the cannel and obscures vision from above. It is a good enough spot of reprieve for the Marines as any other.

 

Yenald had insisted on such measures to be taken, as much as it irked Aranak. The Scout Master had said that he feared reprisal for one reason or another, mostly his thoughts concerning the first town to suffer their entrance. One of the Hunters’ had found them out, had matched one of their leavings back to them. Though Aranak was certain that none could survive that nightmare evening, certainly no mortal at least, Yenald was not so certain.

 

“Fare Morning, Brother.” Yenald appeared behind Votar, fresh from meditation and Morning Prayer. Aranak had elected not to join them in genuflection, stating that his methods of Prayer are done during combat, as words not stained in the fear of the enemy are words not worthy of His ears. It was as polite as Aranak could have been given the circumstances. “Your weapon is content?”

 

“She serves with duty and respect, as she has always done.” Votar Replies. “I fear that she may no longer be able to serve if we should chance another battle. I have nary much more ammunition to offer her”

 

“My own weapon suffers similarly.” Yenald admits, taking a knee next to Votar. “I would have words with you, Brother.”

 

“My ears are yours, Scout Master. They have always been as such.” Votar finishes running an oiled rag through the chamber, he tucks it away in one of his pouches before slinging his shotgun back over his shoulder after making sure its magazine well is fully loaded. “You may begin.”

 

“I have already spoken to Aranak of this.” That in of itself is surprising. “You need not be surprised, he has tempered himself well enough. It concerns our proceedings from here on.”

 

“In regards to this cities council?” Votar guesses, Yenald nods.

 

“We have several options.” He holds out one finger. “We inform this council of the threat. We move to eliminate it with or without their assistance.” He holds out a second finger. “We do not tell them, and move to eliminate it.” Third finger. “We ignore the chaos threat, and find a means of transportation off this planet.” Fourth finger. “We find a means of communication with the wider Imperium.” He says no more, and looks to Vortar, who is wise enough to ask the obvious.

 

“What of the fifth option, Scout Master?”

 

Yenald tells him. Votar is silent for the moment, pondering the choices given to him.

“We are few. We are without support. We are critically low on ammunition. We know little of our surroundings and of this worlds people.” Yenald makes sure that Votar heeds his next words. “This decision must be unanimous, Aranak and myself have already made our votes clear, and we are in agreement.”

 

“Then I shall choose.” Votar tells Yenald his choice. Yenald nods solemnly.

 

“It is decided then.”

 

“Do we know where they are?”

 

“On the many worlds we have warred on Votar, has any one of them ever been devoid of a tourist market? Have any of them been devoid of ‘Maps’?”

 

Votar manages to smile. “Scout Master, was that a joke?”

* * *

 

 

She knocked on the door.

 

It was shitty motel plastic paneling that rattled when you touched it, the bolt not fully set in the lock. She wouldn’t be surprised if every room down the hallway heard it. Nicole winced. Hoping that it wouldn’t actually open. She clutched her bag all the tighter along with the swath of clean bandages.

 

She didn’t recognize the person who opened the door; the normally cute cheery and demure face was ugly with that unfamiliar scowl- the purple bruise only added to that look of loathing. Chiki was angry, even worse- she was disappointed; much in the same way a cop expects to a kid who was the victim of rape posing a mug shot ten years later. Nicole knew she earned that look.

 

“What do you want?” There was a groan in Chikis’ words, an exasperated sound that could only come from a sleepless night and having to deal with someone who is only worthy of being hated.

 

“Uhm,” Nicole fumbled her words, she looked down at the floor and then back up at the ceiling. It was suddenly very hard to breathe. “I-“ She stumbled again. “Shower,” She blurted out, “My shower,” She held up her travel bag, “It’s… busted. So, I…” She tried to look at Chiki, tried to see something other than this bitter girl with an ugly bruise and busted lip. “Can… I use…” She trailed off.

 

Chiki was still for several seconds, either weighing her options or just considering just slamming the door. At last Chiki sniffed, stepping back into her room and letting Nicole through. The blue haired girl hesitated for a moment, hand clutching her travel bag tight- she looked almost to say something, then with her eyes downcast, Nicole stepped into Chikis’ room. “Thanks…” She said mutedly.

 

“Be quick.” Chiki replied, shutting the door again- a bit too loudly.

* * *

 

 

Her body was a mess of scar tissue; Grimm claws and teeth had lacerated her skin hundreds of times. There was a gouge just above her left breast where a Boarbatusk managed to gore her when she was just a student. Her right arm was mutilated above the elbow from when a Nevermore raked its talons across her. Her legs were chewed up by a pack of Ursai, she had chunks of flesh ripped away from her back by an Alpha Beowolf, and there was a bite mark on her ass from a particularly lucky lurker.

 

She didn’t even kill that Lurker, she let it go, she had been impressed.

 

She could recall every fight she’d ever had from just looking at her scars, even the ones that weren’t made by Grimm beasts- the whip scars and the belt lashes on her back, the knife cuts and stab wounds on the underside of her feet- the burn scars on the inside of her thighs, the needle tracks on her arms, the torn away skin from where the ropes bit into her flesh on her wrists and ankles. These she remembered all too well. Never her face, they never ever touched her face- ‘turned away customers’ she’d been told.

 

She had an old bullet wound on her hip, from when the Police finally tracked them down. She’d been caught in the crossfire. She’d been ten years old; her mother had been twenty-three.

 

She didn’t mind the scars from the Grimm; they covered up the real scars, the ones that still hurt her. So, it was okay when the Grimm bit and clawed her, when they tore away her flesh they were taking away her past, letting clean, new flesh grow back and cover up all the baggage. When people asked about the lines on her wrists she would tell them it was from an Ursa, the cuts on her legs were from Beowolves, the scratches on her back from Nevermores. She wasn’t lying, she was just telling them only part of the truth. The truth that wouldn’t make them shy away from her, the truth that would keep people talking to her.

 

The water was hot, too hot. Not scalding but still uncomfortable. When it ran down the marks on her face it stung, it loosened the scabs and they flaked away, some bled still, they turned the water a pinkish red color, pink, like the petals of a spring blossom. Her face was ruined. Ruined. She’d destroyed the one thing she was vain about with her own hands. It hadn’t been some piece of shit Grimm; it had been her own doing. She ran her callused fingers gently across her face. She could feel the deep gouges that went from her forehead down to her jawline. She’d almost succeeded in ripping her eyes out.

 

People had always been scared of her. They always saw her as a bully- they weren’t wrong, she was a mean spirited bitch and bossed other people around in order to feel better about herself, but there was always one person she wouldn’t touch. She called her the closest thing to a friend she’d ever had. Chiki. She never touched Chiki, she always made sure to steer clear of the Faunus girl for fear of hurting her unintentionally. She was the only person Nicole could really talk to.

 

And she had fucked it all up.

 

She hadn’t been thinking straight. The Goliath- the… the… the face in the flesh.

 

Nicole sat down, the water beat down on her back, she put her head in her hands, her brain felt like it was in a vice simply from the memory of that awful night.

 

She’d lashed out, listened to whoever had their bearings- Leonard- went ahead and vented everything on poor Erik, had cold-clocked Chiki when she moved to pull her off and-

 

Now she was alone.

* * *

 

 

Crying.

 

Chiki pulled her ear back from the door. She drummed her fingers on her hip.

 

Nicole didn’t cry.

 

Nicole was a tough bitch, she was also slightly crazy, and Chiki now hesitated to call her a friend. Nicole was more like a violent dog that needed to be put down, but Leonard kept her around because she was useful. Leonard had Nicole on a leash, and he let her off every now and then when something needed to be chewed up.

 

So, it made sense to Chiki that Nicole simple did not cry. Chiki wasn’t sure if Nicole even knew how to cry. If it wasn’t something that she saw other people do and called it a weakness. She at first thought that Nicole was masturbating or something, when she moved closer, half ready to force the girl out of her bathroom, only then did she make out the soft sad whimpers.

 

Chiki wanted to hate Nicole; she really wanted to be able to think about Nicole the same way that she thought about Leonard. She wanted to cast her as the same human garbage that looked down on people like her and Erik. She wanted to look past all those subtle nods of appreciation and pats on the back that Nicole had given her, saying how she was glad that Chiki was backing her up- those awkward one sided conversations that Nicole had tried to have with her over the years.

 

Chiki didn’t realize that her hand was on the doorknob until she started to turn it. She held her hand there for a solid minute. The door wasn’t locked. Nicole had likely forgotten. Chiki wondered what she would find if she opened it right now. What would happen?

 

Would Nicole flip out? Would she pretend like nothing had happened, would she keep crying, would she try to force Chiki out or make her stay?

 

What would Nicole do? What would _she_ do in response?

 

Chiki let go of the doorknob. She took two unsteady steps back and sat on the edge of the bed.

 

Nicole got out five minutes later, towel wrapped around her, eyes on the floor. She mumbled her thanks and quickly crossed back to her room.

 

Chiki minded the floor. She got undressed. She washed the bloodstains off before stepping into the shower. She noted how there seemed to be a lot more than what a facial wound could allot.

 

“Nicole…” She said to herself.

* * *

 

 

The sirens begin to fade once the black and white ground-cars wheel around the far corner. Yenald glances out of the alley, the rain is coming down in oppressive sheets. “No movement.” He says, after a moment, he steps out; Votar is close behind. “They will double back.” His boots walk silently, darting around puddles, not many people are out, those that are have their heads hidden under curved plastic sheets they carry on sticks to block the rain. They are like Caltorian Bonfas, but made of plastic instead of leaves or tree bark.

 

“Why do they chase us?” Votar asks, he is watching behind them, eyes narrowed, cutting through the faint mist of the morning rain. “We have done nothing.”

 

“The town we arrived in.” Yenald says back, “We left our mark.”

 

It had been sudden, the shift in tone from the civilians as well as their Arbites. They had found a map easily enough- a fold out plastic thing that Yenald and Votar had memorized and then thrown away. The Council building was in the commercial district to north of the residential district, about half an hours walk away. Things had gone to the Warp in just fifteen minutes.

 

It may have gone in such a direction sooner had Aranak gone with them, but the Assault Marine was still under the bridge where they made their fateful decision, he had expressed concerns about his presence being ‘less than optimal’ for the plan they had put in place, and had put forth the idea that he join them later. Votar did not disagree, Yenald had devised a means for hopefully getting Aranak to the capital building, but it required further knowledge of the cities sewer system. They had left him, and now Yenald felt the affects of the Assault Astartes’ absence.

 

They had been halfway to the capital when the black and white cars rounded the corner. There was a line of them- three in total. They had lights mounted on the roofs of their hoods, and they had tinted windows. Yenald took note of them almost at once.

 

When the car doors opened, and men in matching uniforms stepped out, hands on holsters, Votar was already reaching for one of his precious few Frag Grenades.

 

The snipers bullet cut through the air, Votar went down.

 

Screaming.

 

Sirens.

 

Panic.

 

Yenald clicked his Vox three times, and popped smoke.

 

Five minutes running through back alleys, dragging a half conscious Votar, casting quick glances behind them, and the rain started. It masked their footsteps, created a mist across the ground. Votar came to.

 

The sniper had been perfectly concealed, and a dead shot. If it weren’t for the micro-response drilled into Votar from the subconscious visualization of a muzzle flash, the bullet would have cored through his right eye and into his brain. Instead, the round had flattened against his forehead- tore through flesh but the ultra-dense bone beneath deflected the lead round with relative ease. It did give the scout marine an emperor-sized headache, however. It would take awhile for the wound itself to close, a thin white streak of his skull showed in a straight line above his right eye and up through his hairline.

 

“They were waiting for us.” Votar managed to grunt out, now walking on his own.

 

“We’ve grown careless.” Yenald agreed; the two scouts crossed the street, cutting into another back-alley. Yenald visualized the map in his head, they were moving back into the residential district, from there, they would move to the industrial district and go to ground. The plan hadn’t changed, but the timing of it would have to wait.

 

“ _Yenald,”_ The Scout Masters vox hissed to life, the Assault Marines voice cut into their thoughts, Yenald could guess the situation almost immediately. _“Ambush. Position under att-“_

“Aranak.” Yenald snapped, something thundered low overhead, he made out the sounds of jet engines. “Status,”

 

_“Multiple aggressors, light infantry, armored vehicles, anti-tank units.”_

 

“Numbers,”

The ground shook with the explosion; Yenald could see the flash several blocks away. He activated his Voxbead. “Aranak, status.” He snapped, “Aranak, report status.”

 

“ _Status, overrun.”_

 

It was the first time he had heard the Assault Marine in pain.

* * *

 

 

“We’ve got a lead.” Leonard said. “They’re in Vale City.” He grinned. “Convenient, aye?”

 

The Transport Assault Bullhead bucked through another blast of turbulence and no one grinned at him in return. Chiki sat in her harness, pensive as all hell; she kept glancing over at Nicole and Erik. Nicole was silent in her seat, her face was a mess, she was clutching at Tyger like it was the last grip she had on reality. Erik was picking at the tops of his hands like they itched. He was wearing a long sleeve jacket, he seemed nervous- no change there.

 

Leonard sighed. He really wished that his team had the mental resiliency he did. He often felt like the only stable person around. “Anyways, the plan is right simple. We drop, and we take the assholes down. They don’t want any prissy shit; they’ve got enough to deal with as it is with the whole CCT being down and beacon being fucked over. We go in, we take them out, and we get our Hunters Licenses as thanks.”

 

“Five minutes.” The pilot called back, Leonard stood up and unclipped Crimes from its holder. “C’mon, cheer up. We don’t have any Grimm to worry about, just some terrorists. Humans, there just human. You know how to kill people, especially you Nicole- isn’t that right?” He leered over Nicole, prodding her with Crimes. The girl had been delightfully quite. He hadn’t gotten a lick of back talk from her, a pleasant change in his opinion. “Nothing like a return to your roots,” Nicole shrunk back into her chair, broadsword pulled closer, “Just think of it as you being back on the streets-

 

“That’s enough, Leonard.” He glanced up, leaning back and eyeing Chiki. The yellow-feathered Faunus girl had become an annoyingly upstart bitch. It felt as if she and Nicole had decided to swap places. “Just leave her alone.” She held Leonard with an intense disapproval that drove him away from Nicole. The normally fire-eyed girl relaxed somewhat, she still didn’t look up.

 

“The fucks gotten into you?” Leonard sighed, hiking up his pants. “Gonna go check up front, get yourselves together.”

 

Ducking into the cockpit, Leonard looked past the pilot and co-pilot. The storm clouds thundered around them, Leonard could make out the shapes of houses and roofs zooming underneath. The co-pilot looked up at Leonard. “Thirty seconds,” he said. Leonard nodded and went back. It had been a while since he’s done a high-speed drop.

 

Thankfully it looked as though his team had pulled its shit back in, Erik, Nicole, and Chiki were ready and waiting by the rear hatch. “Council has a terminate order on these guys, so no pussyfooting. Remember, these fucks tore up the Red-Forest express. No telling what they’ll do to Vale.” He hit the panel and the rear hatch flew open, houses sped by, rain and wind tore at them in equal matter. “If you get a shot- take it!” Leonard shouted; he wrapped himself in his Aura. “Jump!”

 

They flew.

* * *

 

They hit hard, they hit fast. It was professional work, pleasing to watch unfold. Coordinated and overwhelming firepower on target in less than three seconds- even by Astartes standards it was exceptionally executed. Any other target would have been shredded by the crossfire of hard calibers.

 

It had not been pleasant. The two banks that sloped down to the river had been good for a nights watch, but they were not a defensible position. Good for hiding and not much else. He was stuck between the two bridges, heavy weapons mounted on vehicles were pouring down hard calibers from the overpass, while on the opposite bank upon the ridge a line of infantry let loose on fully automatic, on the ridge behind him, much was the same case. There were also snipers, single-fire and heavy caliber rifles scoped down onto him from the buildings on the opposite bank, they overlooked the ledge the infantry were set upon, and allowed for precision fire to target him.

 

Snipers and infantry weren’t so much the problem as were the Rocketeers.

 

It was descending from a high angle and moving at extreme velocities, his auspex had picked it up with microseconds to spare. It hit him like an armored transport moving flat out. The initial impact had buckled his left pauldrons ablative plate with the force alone while the explosive element slammed him against the embankment. The riflemen hadn’t stopped firing even then. He had counted at least six hundred rounds of ammunition by that point. This was when he started returning fire. The first to go was the Rocketeer. Aranak had thought that to be the end of it.

 

He had friends.

 

Charging up the embankment, blasting off bolt rounds at the infantry lined up at the top had seemed like a feasible break out plan, the stub-weapons these men used were ineffective against his armor, and he had a chainsword. He cleared the embankment, blood staining his silver triming and turning him into a Blood Angel for a moment until the rain washes it away.

 

Thirty-two, thirty-one, thirty.

 

Heads came apart in simple explosions of gore. The bullets rattled off his war-plate in much of the same way as the rain did. It was not the small rounds that were his concern. He pivots, twisting around as a screaming contrail sails past with only inches to spare. It slams into the ground behind him, tearing up chunks of rockcrete and staggering him forwards.

 

Twenty-nine, twenty-eight.

 

The first goes wide; the second smashes body-armor and tears apart the flesh and bone beneath. More hard-rounds bracket him, a wave of solid-shot ammunition pings off his ceramite armor, the sheer volume is impressive, much like a Greenskin weapon- but so much more accurate. It is disorienting in the extreme, his optics have been impaired, he can’t make out the target. His tactica display has sustained damage from a direct hit from one of the rockets. It’s giving him false readings, feeding his brain lies. He blink clicks it off, he turns off the entire augury system, and his helmet is silent, h stares out at the world through cracked and smeared lenses.

 

Twenty-seven.

 

Its better this way, he’s giving his system a hard-restart, he murmurs prayers to the Omnisaiha and the warrior spirit of his armor under his breath, it is the best he can do given the circumstances. He prays that it will work even as he fires from the hip, putting a bolt round into one of the human Arbites that have accosted him.

 

His tactica plays into view, he murmurs a further prayer of thanks- and then it is screaming at him. He ducks the rocket; it sparks off his backpack generator at an extreme angle without detonating. The warhead spins away and smashes into one of the armored vehicles and erupts. The firefight pauses for a second but he does not, bolt pistol up, he spins and plugs the Rocketeer.

 

Twenty-six.

 

He is running blind. He snarls to himself, taking a knee. He’s next to a river that runs through the city, he’s on its south bank, further behind him several blocks away is the park, further upstream there is a bridge that will lead into the commercial district, it is there he is supposed to meet with Yenald and Votar, further downstream he can detect more Arbites converging on his position.

 

To borrow a phrase from the Imperial Guard, he could say that he was well and truly, ‘In The Shit.’

 

He’s moving again, plated feet cracking the rockcrete beneath him with every step, pounding the pavement. An Arbites vehicle peels out from around the corner, it had a top mounted turret- a heavy stubber that smashes out high-caliber rounds. Two Arbites in matte-black armor with long barreled rifles hang off the side of it; they drop and roll the moment they make contact.

 

Twenty-five.

 

The bolt round punches into the front left tire, sending the vehicle careening through the guardrail meant to keep much smaller cars from plummeting into the river. It does nothing to stop the much larger armored truck. The black and white van smashes into the river with a splash, the back door is kicked open, and black-attired Arbites pile out; Aranak reloads.

 

Twenty-four, twenty-three, twenty-two, twenty-one, twenty.

 

He chews them up as he walks, five rounds down range into the stumbling mess of humans trying to escape the literal kill box they are trapped inside. He is dimly aware of the stock of a rifle smashing against his chest piece. He regards the human as it swings its rifle again- the mortal is infuriated, it has just watched Aranak slaughter its comrades without any hesitation or difficulty.

 

Aranak grabs the rifle from the mortal and smashes it back across the mortals face, the rifle comes apart from the force of the blow, and the mortals’ head is knocked clean from its shoulders.

 

He snaps his gaze upwards; his helmet tracking the jet thundering overhead, his Auspex doesn’t detect any weapons fire from it.

 

He has a second to register the four shapes falling before his vision is eclipsed by searing red heat.

* * *

 

Erik is a great shot, he knows how to perfectly angle his projectile in just such a way that it fits snuggly into packs of Grimm and blows them all to hell. He can put warheads down the throats of Grimm if you ask him to.

 

Targeting the Red Giant is just a matter of pointing him out for Erik. Chiki watches in fascination, even as they are falling at high speed, Erik turns into someone else. He hefts Rat over his shoulder, face relaxing, eyes narrowing as he scopes down the length of Rat.

 

He seems cool, confident, composed and lethal. It’s entirely different from the sweet, shy Faunus boy who she knows has a crush on her.

 

He pulls the trigger and fires, reloading for a follow up shot almost instinctively, they land, and the jarring impact does nothing to divert him from his delicate task. He’s locked and loaded before they even touch the ground, and the sensitive Erik is back once again.

 

It hits like a meteor, slamming into the target with unguided fury. The warhead detonates and for a moment the white flash of heat that rolls outwards evaporates the rain into a steamy mist.

 

Team Lance lands with all the Aura granted grace of a seasoned Hunter team. They have only a moment to situate themselves before a smoldering red and silver shape smashes through the smoke.

* * *

 

He didn’t know what it was that hit him, all he knew was that it had hit _hard_ , and that someone was now fated to die.

 

The warning runes on his flickering tactica display wouldn’t be silent; he decides that its machine spirit has had more than enough of this place, so with a whispered prayer he deactivates his tactica. There was nothing he could do about the horrible grating sensation however, the feeling of metal on bone, and the sound of broken machinery grinding against its component parts. He has taken damage. His armor was operating at just above fifty-percent efficiency, and that was before that damnable impact.

 

Even so, even in its ruined state the ceramite plating had done its job, the ablative layer had minimized the heat wash considerably but that was to say nothing of the sheer destructive force of the rocket.

 

It had detonated on-surface and tore the front of his chest plate to shreds, the Aquila had been defaced, whole chunks of plating had been torn off to reveal the servo-enhancements beneath the armor along with the black-carapace input ports and synthetic fibero muscle bundles. Sparks arced freely into the damp air, he felt empathic pain feed back through his black carapace, it was like having a piece of himself torn away. He could not afford shutting down the servos in the local area; he needed every bit of power at the moment to destroy the fool who had wounded his battle plate so grievously.

 

Mortals often only served to anger Aranak, they amused him with their weakness as well, but for the most part it was anger. Sometimes that anger would be put aside by a grudging respect when one completed some mighty deed. Landing a hit on an astartes is no easy feat for a mortal, but the fools that had wounded him were offered no praise, they were given nothing save for the assault marines full and unbridled fury as he charged through the billowing smoke, armor cracked and tattered, soot and blood mingling with the rain, his chainsword screamed.

* * *

 

Leonard shouted; Chiki didn’t hear it over the roar of the hellish weapon. She was reminded of the walls of Electrus, she had fought back to back with this _thing_ for a mere moment, and the entire time she recalled wishing to never have to face this monster in combat. She could recall why easily as the red and silver giant stampedes, covering the distance in lunging steps that crack the ground. Team lance is immediately on the defensive. Chiki jams Quacker against the pavement, a burst of air sending her skywards alongside Nicole, Erik and Leonard turn and run; they are not fleeing. The giant storms after them- actually managing to not only keeps pace on the Hunters but is _gaining_.

 

It holds up the boxy handgun it had clipped to its thigh and without a moment to even aim its firing- heavy automatic bursts with no discernable recoil. Leonard jumps and spins mid air, letting his momentum carry him, his aura pulses around him with a grey glow and the heavy rounds impact- His semblance kicks in.

 

Recall, as Leonard liked to call it, he could ‘pause’ the energy of any object he had within reach, he could make a bullet stop midair and then continue on its way. It was perfect for setting up traps, but it could do so much more than just that. It could reverse the flow of kinetic energy in a projectile. He could send things back. Recalled.

 

With a flash the slugs snapped around, thrown back at the giant like a snap-to boomerang, it was something to behold when the Giant didn’t try to dodge. The giant fired again- another burst slung out of his handgun and intercepting the rounds mid-air, bright flashes of explosions as the Giant shot the rounds out of the air- handgun thudding in quick succession. He jerks, another threat looming as Erik vaults through the rain- Rat over his shoulder, sighting down the barrel and-

 

Erik fired, a quick skip and twist mid flight like Leonard, but his weapon sent him flying backward. The giant didn’t shoot this massive flaming ball, it ducked, dodging left, armor scraping against the ground as it fired on its way down, pistol booming out the flashing fat slugs and leaving copper casings like litter. Erik threw up his aura, his teeth grit as the explosive rounds detonated on impact like sledgehammer blows. Erik landed and rolled; he was already reloading when Nicole slammed into the ground where the Giant was but a second ago- some sort of instinct warning it to roll out of the way. The electric discharge caught the giant to no visible affect, Nicole swung, Tyger arcing through the air, raindrops evaporating when it cut.

 

The Giant was faster.

 

The howling sword didn’t hit Tyger edge to edge; the back slapped the flat of Tyger, hitting it off target with enough force to knock Nicole off her balance and counter with a savage swipe that smashed into Nicoles Aura like a thunderclap. Chiki felt that instinctive pang of worry, despite everything. She tightened her grip on Quacker, the vents open, she flies down like a swooping hawk, she spins as she flies, rain and wind coiling around her in silver shimmering streams as she rolls out of the spin- Quacker whirling around and striking out, the giant has no room to dodge, blade locked with Tyger-

 

Chiki breaks off the attack, Quacker bellowing in her hands she diverts direction, angling off horizontal along the pavement, Quacker kicking up water and sparks as she flips out of her spin and skates along the rain-slick street, her Aura is flashing- evidence of immense strain as she rolls behind an abandoned fruit stand. The thunderclaps echo down the street, Leonard recognizes the sound almost at once. He spins around, Crimes shouldered, and trigger squeezing before he is blinded by a spray of cobblestone blasted up from below as another heavy caliber round burrows into the ground at his feet. He flashes his Aura before him, the next spray of jagged stone caught and deflected. He glares out with a vicious malice, a snarl breaking his lips.

 

“You,” he snaps, in answer, another volley of slugs streak down the narrow street.

* * *

 

Yenald works the trigger, the Stalker jumps in his grip with every pull, Kraken penetrators thudding out the end of the extended barrel. He is on target with every shot, first he puts a single round into the dive-bombing Abhuman, a strange shield flashes into existence right before impact- but it has the desired effect, she breaks off course, veers away from Aranak still locked in a vicious duel. She skirts behind cover, Yenald shifts targets at once, he slams the trigger, a three round burst smashes into the ground before the white haired boy, catching him before he can pull the trigger of his crossbow. The street cuts into him, the next two bolts are caught by his shield and then Yenald is putting fire on the other Abhuman, the boy leaps into cover behind a building- Yenald shifts again, he puts a bolt into the sword-wielding girl, she spins, dodging the round but giving Aranak the opening he needs. He cuts, his blade smashes into her shield and it seems to cause the girl physical pain as Aranaks chainsword grinds against the luminous plane protecting her from harm.

 

The thunder of a long barreled shotgun, Votar leans out of the window, bright plume of flame spurting from the muzzle, the heavy slug punches into the white haired leaders shield- it bowls him over with the force alone before the heavy slug round falls flat onto the ground and the leader rolls backwards, dodging the follow up shot narrowly, and the third clips him, sending him sprawling onto his back once again, Yenald shifts to put another burst into him but before the Scout Master can pull the trigger the boys crossbow howls red and snaps a burning spear through the air. Steam hisses off of its surface of the burning rod of fire. It is snap aimed but its trajectory is perfect.

 

Yenald rolls out of cover from behind the fence, he hears the splintering of wood and smell of burning paint, he buts bolter to shoulder and fires- sending a volley of rounds into the sword girl again- the explosive detonations are lesser than standard fragmentation bolt Rounds, but the velocity of Kraken penetrators is markedly faster. The preternatural agility of the Swords girl allows her to twist out of the line of fire, only allowing her to be lipped one by a Bolt- it is enough to throw her off balance- she rolls backwards, out of the line of fire and out from the savage down cut of Aranak.

 

Yenald shifts aim to the white Haired boy on the ground again, he ignores the yellow tailed Abhuman- she jumps with the aid of her strange staff, crashing into the same grocery store as the leader snarls- Crossbow aimed but Yenald is confidant that he can dodge it in time, Yenald squeezes the trigger. His instincts scream.

 

He ducks, dropping to one knee as the burning projectile screams overhead at the same time that the Sword Girl spins, blade arcing through the air and cutting just underneath Aranaks chainsword, sparks erupt as she screams and drives her sword through the marines armor, she wrenches her blade free and kicks off- and the fireball scours the air, passing directly overhead and arcing down into the open guard of Aranaks chest- The explosion rips at the street, the Assault marine is blasted back into a storefront with a squeal of torn metal and collapsing stone.

 

The white haired boy starts laughing. 

* * *

 

 

Eliminate the Heavy weapons.

 

That much he knows without being said. Votar thunders down the street, vaulting over a food stand he one-handed fires his shotgun, the heavy kick jerking it up with each pull of the trigger and rack of the slide. The Abhuman retaliates, moving to close the distance as well, his weapon clicks and twists, compressing down into a vicious short handled club. It had only one effective ranged attack that took time to reload, close combat kept it from reloading. They already had one brother down to this weapon, they would not lose another. Votar would see that Yenald was not under threat.

  
Votar ducked the blow, he countered with a low easy swing; he grunts as the Abhuman twirls his club around his back, letting the end strikes out against Votars shoulder with a solid thwack that shaks bone. Votar steps back, as the abhuman spins again, black slab of conical metal barley even a blur that can be seen, he is moving with a grace that is both alien and familiar to Votar. He flows, he sweeps, he swings and dances forwards, keeping him off balance with a combination of basic strikes and blistering spinning cuts. What’s worse is that he cannot strike past his shield. He can see no device on his person that would signify a refractor emitter or any sort of protective barrier.

 

The abhuman swings, twirling the club around his wrist and catching it in the reverse, and with a stunning display of strength- the strike is fast brutally fast and it catches Votar off guard- the club hammers into his side with enough force that manages to knock the wind out of his lungs and for a moment he sees dark spots clouding his vision. He shuts off the pain, recites the litanies of duty in his head, grits his teeth and lashes out with a curled open palm, his strike crashes against that barrier that seems to be constantly about the Abhuman, but it has effect, it nocks them away, it gives the scout marine the room to maneuver that he needed.

 

He flicks a shell from a pouch and wracks the slide of his shotgun, the shell lands in the breech and he locks it the savage sound of the pump action clicking like the rain. Votar crashes through the broken remains of a stall, charging after the Abhuman who is already on his feet, club twirling around him like some mad spinning windmill. His eyes are focused points of intensity, devoted to the combat before him.

 

“It was a mistake for you to come here.” The Abhuman sighs. "Agreed." Votar reply's. He sights down the barrel of his shotgun.

* * *

 

The man is moving, circling around him, putting distance between him and Leonard, his gun thunders and Leonard swipes the air in front of him, the heavy solid metal rockets flip around and spring back towards the man. To his credit he does not flinch, he ducks, readjusting his aim as the first round sails overhead and the second one he redirects with a well-placed shot. Sparks fly in the middle between them, it becomes clear to the man that ranged combat is not working. He instead pulls his staff.

 

Leonard has no such qualms.

 

He racks crimes, the blazing steel bolt flies out; to Yenald it is stupidly slow, he twists around the first, ducks the second, each step brings him closer until he is running, diving out of the way of the shots, his staff held one handed he flips over another shot as the boy curses, rolling backwards, his crossbow separates into two separate pieces, forming into twinned wicked picks that scythe through the air, intercepting his downwards strike.

 

Metal against metal, sparks shower the street as Yenald reverses, catching one of the picks underneath with a spin, the blow nearly wrenches the boys hand from his wrist before he goes with the momentum of the strike to spin around and bring one of his picks howling through the rain, missing Yenald by a bear inch, Yenald, does not miss in return.

 

The butt of his staff slams down like a spear, catching the boy in the shoulder with the force of a pneumatic press, it sends him sprawling backwards, a look of shocked pain etched over his features, the skin is broken and already bruising, blood leaks sluggishly from the crushed muscles. Yenald twirls his staff once, clearing it of any blood before he approaches, the leader boy glares up at him with clear hate. He snaps his fingers, and Yenald has a second to register the shift in air pressure behind him before something heavy and burning smashes into his back.

* * *

 

They never expect it. They always fall for it, no matter whom they are. The delayed recall is one of his best tricks, firing off a bolt, letting it stick in a target behind the enemy, and then calling it back to skewer whatever is in between him and the bolt. Sure, the stopping power isn’t as great from the initial firing, but it still is enough to punch through an Ursa with no problem, and it worked great initially against that Goliath in Electrus.

 

It worked just as well against this freak in Vale City. The bolt punches clean through his armor and out the other side, dragging bits of flesh with it as it exits the wound and slams into the board next to Leonard's face, splattering his savage grin with bits of offal. The man to his credit doesn’t even so much as shout, his face contorts in obvious pain and he goes down on one knee, hand clutching at the hole in his side, his breathing shudders for a second, a deep rumbling growl rolls from his throat. Leonard gets to his feet, racking crimes with another bolt- this one an executioner’s blow. The council shouldn’t care too much about the mess.

 

“I’m supposed to be afraid of you? A messed up chigg with a gun and an anger issue?” The Hunter sneered. Yenald smiled, queer and painful seeming as he clutched his wound. “Not me. No.”

 

“ _You are to fear,_ Me. _”_ Rubble fell from scorched black armor; flakes of ash and grit shed from a battered helmet with a cracked lens and snarling grill. The Hunter turned, inhumanly fast- faster than any man or women should be able to move.

 

Aranak was not a human. And he moved _so_ much faster then one.

 

The Hunters field held, the strange energy suffused him and absorbed the massive fist that crashed down upon it- but blocking it was like holding against the weight of a mountain. The Hunter flew- smashing through walls and support beams, Aranak let loose a savage cry **_“BY THE WINGS OF THE ROC!”_** and stormed after his target.

 

Yenald cracked a grin.

 

A Griffon was on The Hunt.

* * *

 

 

He had miscalculated. A grave mistake. He had thought Rat at full power would be enough to bring down the brute.

 

His error now pursued him, breaking through walls with all the subtlety of an Alpha Boarbatusk. Leonard skated backwards; sweat beaded his brow as he ran through simulation after simulation, his mind racing for a conclusion that would favor team Lance, one that would see him out alive.

 

His predictions grew direr by the second.

 

He wasn’t allowed a moment of respite, the red and silver giant was on him in an instant, despite the maneuverability of his Aura enhanced limbs the brute seemed to track him with disgusting ease. He drew Crimes, the bastard child of a crossbow and pick came together in his hands, and its familiarity comforted him slightly. Team members came and went, a good weapon never left.

 

He flicked a dust crystal into the slot and the magnetized catch released instantly, spearing the tapered crystal out at insane speeds. The Giant was faster.

 

He didn’t dodge the dust round- it was far too fast to be avoided, traveling at near Mach speeds, the Giant dodged Leonard. Just as Leonard pulled the trigger, the giant moved, twisting out of the way, contorting in ways that should have been impossible for a being wearing such heavy armor- but the Giant was breaking Leonards’ preconceived notions of possibility every second it was alive.

* * *

 

 

Yenald stood, the pain in his side falling away as his body began to flood with soothing painkillers and combat hormones. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his back, he could feel something grind in his side, he slammed his fist hard against the wound, and the burst of pain and splatter of blood and meat was accompanied by a muffled crunch. He tried moving again. Better this time.

 

He stalked out of the rubble, seeing his Stalker bolter lying in ignominy in the middle of the paved street. He was glad that it was still intact; he would have to sing the machine spirits its due praises later, that was certain. He stepped over the rubble; smoke trailed up from burning embers. He made it two steps before a blast of air slammed into his shoulder and sent him sprawling back into the shop.

 

“Hold it.” A young voice blessed with an unusual resolve held his attention as he picked himself up, the front of his armor scorched. Through the flames came they- the dovetailed Abhuman, he noted she wielded a staff. Falling in behind her was the one in the low-cut shirt with the inordinately large sword.

 

“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” The Abhuman said, and the swordswoman quietly swung her blade through the air leaving an electric contrail.

 

“Children and their toys...” He grunted, pulling his stave free, he tested his movements, they came fluidly, and he fell back into the loose stance he had long since mastered. Staff in the backhand, lead arm extended- palm out.

 

The blue haired mortal.

 

She would be the one who attacked first. She would jump and swing down with an overhead strike, blade reaching its apex just as she came down. There were various theoretical movements she could branch this attack into. Very rarely did the first strike kill when both combatants saw their enemy and were prepared for the engagement. Just as he envisioned, she darted forwards, sword slashing down with an overhead strike. Yenald slid backwards, observe-and-destroy were one of the core tenants of the Scout creed.

 

Nicole brought Tyger down hard, shimmering electric sparks crackled through the air as she swung, the dust-charged segmented broadsword slammed into the shop floor in a burst of electric corposant. She didn’t stop moving, using the momentum from the leap she vaulted over Tyger, tearing the sword out of the floor and back over her head into another savage overhead strike- it met only air.

 

The Man skipped back, dodging out of the range of her second attack before she had even completed the first. She grit her teeth, brought her blade back behind her and charged. She cut across wide, and found her blade intercepted at an angle, hitting it from the back and pushing it onwards was a solid steel pole. He whipped the staff around and smacked Tyger along its broad flat top; sparks rolled off it and shot up the pole, stopping short when they encountered the leather banding wrapped near its middle.

 

Her blade cut into the floor again, not of her volition. Before she could rally or dodge he stabbed out like the wind, staff twirling once and striking out at her. Nicole ducked, the staff blew over her head but the reverse came just as quick and slammed her across the back with a resounding crack, faster than she had a chance to bring up her Aura.

 

“Nicole!” Chiki shouted.  
  
Nicole gasped, the air smacked out of her, for s second she thought she heard Chiki, she disregarded it, why would Chiki care about her now? Rolling out of the path of a follow up she boosted her aura; the shielding light rippled in front of her and repulsed the staff- the man ghosted back, drawing distance between him and her Aura, as if he were wary of it.

 

“Lucky… Hit,” Nicole gulped the air back into her lungs and grabbed Tyger, she checked its amp, still full. She grunted and hefted it over her shoulder, eyeing the battle-scarred warhorse of a man standing across from her. “You’re not half bad, pops,” She was catching her breath, playing for time, whatever you wanted to call it. “Where’d you learn to swing a stripper pole around like that? I don’t think the retirement home teaches those sorta’ moves.” She grinned, it was painfully false. “Unless Sunday-night Karaoke is a helluva lot more exciting than from what I’ve heard.”

 

His mouth twitched into some strange approximation of a grin- or was it a scowl? It was unnerving really. He spun his staff in a lazy display of his consummate skill. “In distant forests.” He answered. “Under different stars.”

 

Nicole sniffed; she had no idea what he was saying. “Whatever you say, pops.” She readied Tyger. Her back was still stinging and she wanted to give this guy a few cuts in return for the bruise she’ll have tomorrow.

 

He attacked.

 

He moved. Fast. Far too fast. Two steps, and he is before her. She barely had time to react as he spun and the staff whistled through the air, she choked a shout and brought up Tyger, the impact felt like a cannon ball had ricocheted off, it blew her off her feet, sending her careening to the side and through a rack of clothes before she rolled to her feet- this summers best wear threatened to obscure her vision and she shook it from her head.

 

Another strike just as she looked up in time to see that glinting length of steel arc down towards her skull, she screams, Tyger intercepted and sparks flew. She was forced down onto her knees, the force of the blow rattling her teeth. She felt her Aura drain again as he reversed and the back of his staff swooped in for an upwards strike, she caught it neatly on Tygers pommel, and the crack of metal on metal sounded again as Tyger is ripped from her grip, tearing skin off her palms. She jams her eyes shut, she can feel the metal stave whirling through the air; ready to bash her skull into smithereens- she had so many regrets.

 

Every Hunters weapon is unique. Some may share the same properties, the same function, they may even resemble each other to some extent, but these are only surface features. The inner workings are always different. These differences make themselves apparent through how they are used, how they operate, the way they are wielded -the things that make them distinct above all else- one can usually identify a Hunter based on their weapon alone.

 

A veteran Hunter can I.D. a hunter solely on the sound of a weapons discharge. Nicole is not a Veteran hunter; she’s barley out of the academy. Yet, for her, there is no mistaking the telltale signs of a slight drop in room pressure followed by a wind when there should be none- a sensation of a hot breeze passing through the building, she knows what comes next: gusting, the soundless inhalation of air before the explosive blast of pressure. Despite being one of the quietest souls Nicole has known, Chikis’ weapon always was one of the loudest.

 

The man was sidelined by a battering ram of compressed air shot out like a cannon blast. He went crashing through several racks of discount bargain magazines, Nicole was certain that it wouldn’t keep him down, but that wasn’t her main concern right now. “Chiki?” The swordswoman pulled herself up, disbelieving as she watched the yellow-feathered Faunus step into the ruined clothing store. The long barreled air-cannon in her hands clicked, and realigned, its vents shifting back into the compact form of a red long-staff. “Get back up,” Chiki said, she kicked Tyger over to Nicole. The former firebrand could only offer a shaky nod in return, picking up her sword. “I’ll help you clean your mess up.”

* * *

 

The Abhuman came to the firebrands aid; she was a grand deal wiser, less needless aggression, instead there was a cold authority underlying her words and movements, a jagged and purifying edge of freshly born cynicism. She led the fight this time. She struck out with a jab, Yenald parried easily enough, and intercepted a strike to his left, stepping right and knocking the staff away, he retaliated, lunging forwards and pushing the Faunus girl back with his presence alone.

 

She was deft, and avoided his shove that would have set her off balance. It was clear to him that she did not like the confines of the clothing shop. The debris and shelves restricted her movement. From what he had seen, the way these Hunters fought was a fluid and acrobatic form of combat that frowned upon confined duels. It played it to his advantage, sweeping around her, fighting off her next attacks, he placed himself by the hole leading out of the clothing store- he would cage them in here, block there movements, keep them contained in this ‘arena.’

 

The Abhuman girl fought for every other advantage available, staying low, she spun, her staff knocked against his, but she wasn’t alone this time, the firebrand came, broadsword sparking in the air. This was more like it, he knocked the staff away and leaned out of the arc of sword, the Abhuman was trying to work around him, trying to get out into the streets where she could attack him from behind. He wouldn’t allow it. He swung hard- staff whistling through the air, it slammed into the top of the firebrands blade, sparks rippled outwards, he kept the momentum going, whipping his weapon around and into the Abhuman- her shield flared from the brutal impact and knocked her back into the store- he was already parrying the Swordswoman’s next strike by the time she landed.

 

He could deal with the swordswoman easily enough, she had skill that much he could acknowledge, but she did not possess much else. He spun, sweeping low with his staff he undercut the Girls weapon and delivered a painful jab to her thigh- the girl barked a curse, her focus wavering for a second, giving him the opening he needed. Spinning back with lightning reflex he lunged forwards again, staff held like a spear he lanced out with a thrust- the girl had enough control left to try and dodge the killing strike- she only dodged barley, his stave knocked the girl in the shoulder and exposed her for a second vicious blow with the length of his staff. The air in front of her flashed at the last second, the strange shield popping into place and protecting her as she was thrown back crashing into yet more store sales. Yenald grimaced. This was taking too long, but he had an idea of how to bypass those damn shields.

* * *

 

Votar slammed his shotgun home, the stock connecting solidly with the Abhumans chest. The blow should have shattered his trachea and most of his ribs, but again that crystalline shield intervened. The Abhuman countered with the club, taking the hit in stride, spinning with it, the flat of the club smashed Votar across the face, the Scout marine snarled, not letting the blow knock him off balance he lashed out, grabbing the Abhuman buy the shirt and pulling him close- slamming his head against the Abhuman, skull to skull Votar brought his knee up, slamming his carapace plate into the Abhumans gut- something seemed to shatter with the blow, a flash of light and the Abhuman tumbled back, hitting the street with a heavy thud. “Ingrate,” Votar snarled, breathing hard, he ignored the trickle of red down his brow.

 

A roar of combat drew his momentary attention, Aranak thundered down the street, the white haired leader flipping and twisting away from the assault marine, streaks of fire blistering downrange with every opportunity. Taking his chances Votar brought his shotgun to his shoulder and fired, the blistering muzzle flash speared out and caught the Leader by surprise- it was a shame it was only a buckshot round or else Votar sincerely believed that he could have neutralized the white haired Hunter.

 

The spread of shot caught against the shield, it was weak and undirected, but it got the white haired boys attention. He twisted once more as he fell, a brief scowl the only thing offered to the scout marine before he brought around his crossbow and fired a single blazing bolt. Votar felt the heat of it blistering off of its scalded surface as it passed just over his shoulder; Votar has his shotgun up against his before the bolt had even had the chance to impact the building behind Votar. He fired, spread shot fanning out and filling the air around the white haired boy so he had no room to dodge- he didn’t, the shield flared again and the Boy reloaded. Some of the pellets struck Aranak, the silver-red assault marine twisted around. He raised his Bolt pistol. He fired.

 

Again, Votar felt the burning sensation of a projectile thunder past, nearly kissing his cheek.

 

The detonation of a bolt round behind him, that now-familiar flare of light the strange shields these children possessed. Votar dove forwards; Aranak fired again, barrage of bolt rounds thundering through the air before his pistol clicked empty, he loaded his last magazine. By the time Votar came up out of his roll, Shotgun shouldered- firing, the Boy dropped to one knee, shield flaring with every impact as he reloaded his crossbow with deft hands. Votar felt the Abhuman boy behind him but he needn’t worry- the silver red Griffon jumped- armored bulk sailing over Votar- and crashing down behind him, shattering the pavement. Votar could hear the sound of metal grinding against metal.

 

Two Astartes, back to back.

 

“ _Cleanse the Mutant!”_ Aranak snarled.

 

“Purge the Unclean!” Votar barked in return.

* * *

 

 

Leonard is not a brave man, he’s not even a man, he’s a boy who lied about his age in order to enroll into Signal Academy and get away from the shit-hole that was his home. He’s a bully, a cretin, a liar, a cheat, and an actual bastard. No one knew much about him, he didn’t talk about his past freely, and when he did it was always a lie. There was maybe a point- perhaps there still is- when he could have opened up to someone, told them his story, gained some sense of closure and maybe make a friend or two at Signal.

 

It was a nice dream, one that never lasted for long.

He’s been called a psychopath before; his complete disregard for the sanctity of human life and rampant narcissism made him a picture perfect case of psychopathy. He’d probably even believe it himself if it wasn’t for one strict rule about himself.

 

Professionalism.

 

Leonard has never failed a mission, not even once. His teams, O.L.L.Y, L.A.N.Y, L.I.N.A, L.A.N.C, and finally L.N.C.E, had one of the highest casualty rates in Vale but a perfect record of successful engagements. The engagements were never without casualties, be it on the team or any civilians, someone always got hurt, but the job got done right.

 

There was a sense of duty and pride that came with being a Hunter, something that Leonard never had before. People look up to you, they admire you and smile in your direction because what Hunters do is important, it’s necessary. There also came the backlash to being such an idolized figure. People come to expect you to behave a certain way, they expect you to work with a team and be all ‘lovey-dovey.’

 

That didn’t sit well with Leonard.

 

He tried to go with that shtick in the beginning with team O.L.L.Y; it only wound up with him being ostracized by a bunch of overly self-righteous rich-pricks. While they were being groomed and pampered by mommy and daddy, he was sucking dicks in back alleys for pocket change so mommy could get her next fix and daddy would fight him for whatever scraps of bread he’d managed to buy before handing the days wages over. He was vermin to them, some lowly vagrant runt to be pushed around and berated. He was okay with that; he could take the insults, the snubs and scathing remarks. What he was not okay with was their lack of duty. They were inept, they cut corners, they didn’t get the job done _right_.

 

He took out Oliver when he wasn’t looking, Lynnette was a bit trickier and he had to get rid of Ying when he found out that she had seen. By that point, he was leading his own team, calling the shots, making it work, finishing everything _right_ and _correctly_. All he had to do was make sure that he was in control. When he was in control, the team listened, and everything worked out just fine. How he maintained control- that didn’t matter. Whatever worked.

 

It all had gone to shit.

 

Team L.N.C.E was on its last legs. He wasn’t sure that the Academy would let him lead another team. Sure, he got the job done, but he was costing them Hunters- Hunters were not cheap to train by any regards. Electrus had seen it all end, whatever happened that night had not been natural, and it had left its marks on Team LNCE. As he let loose with a blazing bolt from Crimes and reflected a barrage of buckshot, something told him that these fuckers were to blame.

 

The one with the shotgun, he remembered meeting him in the streets of Eelctrus, right after he’d thought he downed the Goliath. He’d measured him up back them, passed them off as a couple of guns-for-hire with more brain and brawn than the usual Fucks that roll into the Vale. He was certainly wrong about that, these fucks had a lot more to them than what met the eye. Leonard was practically dancing, dodging left, right and back. Trying to evade the shotgunnners rounds. While he still had his Aura Shield he would be fine but trying to endure the force behind each impact from his shotgun was taxing in a way that left him few options.

 

Crimes was not suited for this; the dark haired man seemed to be able to dodge every last projectile at the exact last second, moving with such inhuman precision and speed that it was mind boggling. That was not the worst of it. The stare of this man- his unbreakable focus on Leonard was zeroed in with ridiculous intensity. Ranged wasn’t working, it was time to switch tactics, a single flick and Crimes separated, mechanical components shifting back into reserve in favor of the twinned deadly picks.

 

He had a quarter of a second to register the attack before it smashed into him. The blow was a low sweep with the shotgun, the man had blitzed, not letting Leonard get his weapons detached in time, the stock smashed into his Aura- not quickly enough to bypass it but not slow enough to be completely deflected- it was like someone had smashed him in the gut with a bowling ball, it was amazing that Leonard didn’t go down straight away.

 

It was a miracle that he was able to raise his weapons and block the next attack. Adrenaline was an amazing thing, survival instinct in full blast, Leonard snapped his weapons up and managed to block the crushing strike of the shotguns stock, looking to pulp his head- the man redirected, stepping back, spinning, lunging forwards out of the spin and bringing his weapon whipping around, the hard stock showing its dents from repeated use, looking to add another dent like a tally mark.

 

Leonard flipped backwards, aura boosted kick sending him skating away from the man- with the distance increased the man shifted seamlessly back into pumping rounds downrange- solid slug rounds this time, hitting like a cannon shot each- Leonard managed to snare and toss one back with his semblance but the man side stepped it before it left his hands, working the pump like a hydraulic press. He controlled his breathing, spun crimes in both hands, the sickle shaped edges gleaming darkly. The man charged- hellishly fast- and Leonard met the challenge, swinging hard, cutting up, hoping to gouge the mans face only for his blow to be intercepted, by his sturdy shotgun, the impact stopped dead in its tracks.

 

Leonard let his other arm fall, Crimes swinging downwards, the man caught the haft of the weapon with his wrist, and his knee lunged for Leonard’s gut- the boy disengaged, jumping back, kiting the man even as he pumped hard rounds into his aura with lethal precision. Leonard sent one of the rounds back with Recall again, it clipped the man across the shoulder- he didn’t even so much as flinch as he continued to unload.

 

Leonard ducked in again, biting the concrete and rolling under the hard jab with his shotgun, this time Crimes tasted flesh, digging into the mans calf- he had only a second to exult in drawing blood before he was seeing stars- knocked away with a crippling backhanded strike, crimes tore out with him as he skidded along the street. He tasted blood in his mouth, sitting up he saw the man advancing on him, blood slicking down his wounded leg.

 

Leonard was deftly aware of his shotgun- the open well mag as the man reached for shells on a bandolier that was empty- seething, a snarled curse in some foreign tongue. “Running on empty big boy?” Leonard shouted, scrambling back to his feet, twirling crimes in both hands. The man slung his shotgun over his back, tightening the strap so it wouldn’t twist around even as he strode closer to Leonard, hands clenched into fists and arms solid like carved marble, it was only natural that Leonard felt a degree of unease in this fight.

 

Then he attacked.

 

No qualms in his strike, the man leapt forwards, fist cutting through the rain, and meeting empty air- he already was spinning around, delivering a kick to where Leonard had shifted to- pushing the white haired boy back a step- his aura caught the follow up and still staggered him- Leonard swung wildly, there was no tact- just a bide for more space. This wasn’t an engagement he was comfortable with-

 

A strike like thunder, sundering the street and sending bits of rock flying through the air, one caught the man on the cheek and drew blood- it let Leonard slip under his guard and beat one of Crimes into the mans side- the pick dug deep before it was wrenched out- the man returned the favor, slugging Leonard low in the gut with a quick jab that felt more like a bulldozer.

 

They were not the only combatants that were down to close combat- hand to hand-, the Red and Silver giant was like some berserk myth made real, smashing fists and howling rage in equal measure, trying to put his brutal blows into Erik’s flesh. The Faunus boy himself was not so enthusiastic as his hellish foe, every step was a step backwards as he blocked yet another strike with Rat, sparks showered the ground, he was forced to one knee.

 

The Giant snarled, put his weight into the next blow- hammering down on Rat with a sundering strike that cut through the air with the sound of ruined metal as the grenade lobbing cudgel came apart in Erik’s hands. Another fist smashed behind the first- Erik’s Aura flared bright and hot for a second, before the giant was upon him again- fists raining down on the shield like the rain but so much more heavy. It came as a surprise when Erik managed to catch one, Leonard could feel the strain on Erik’s Aura even as he dodged under a lightning-fast kick that was reversed at the last second into his exposed back. Something like grating iron sounded out across the street- it took him a second to realize that the giant was _laughing_.

 

 _“Is this your best, vermin?”_ The Giant sneered, a hateful thing that Erik and Leonard could picture even with the snarling mask in the way. _“You think a filthy mutant pest like yourself can stand against me?”_

 

Leonard blinked at that, even as he grappled with the shotgun-wielding man- he dodged an open handed strike that could have taken his head off, returned with a fist against the mans jaw. He saw him flinch, but Leonard was certain he hurt his own fist more than anything. It was like punching iron.

 

Erik was struggling, breaking. His aura was the groups strongest, his semblance made it doubly so, and when he combined both…

 

Leonard had seen Erik wrestle an Ursa Majoris to the ground with his bare hands.

 

Leonard wasn’t a big fan of the Faunus boy, but he knew better than to push him over the edge.

 

“I’m a Person- Damnit!” Erik snarled, his Aura flared, and veins bulged across his arms, hot blood flowed into his muscles as the street crumbled beneath his feet. Erik screamed- in pain, in rage, in the hot straits of a savage anger that ripped through him and gave him the edge he needed. He pulled, shifted his weight, one foot stepped in past the giants guard-

 

Erik fell with the Giant, pulled his legs up, and kicked.

 

The Giant flew.

 

The Shotgun-Man paused in his fight against Leonard, a snap-step back as he tracked his comrades flight, watching him arc up into the air and plummet downwards, hitting the ground and cratering the street with his impact.

 

The dust settled, against all odds a figure rose from the center of the crater.

 

Erik was the first to see its face.

 

His kick had broken the brutes helmet, an Aura-Semblance boosted kick to its face that had stunned it, with a follow up kick that had sent it flying. It brought its hands up to the crumpled mess of metal that was its face now. It dug its fingers into the mess, and pulled. Cracks and fractures came away with the sound of twisted metal. With a final pull the mask came off with the rest of the helmet in pieces.

 

A scarred, bloodied visage, tribal tattoos in the shape of a great birds wing covered one half of his face, the other was a mess of meat, a cheek torn away, revealing teeth and jaw and raw red muscle. A single stripe of white ran down his scalp, an ugly track showing his skull. Two brutal jade green eyes glared red murder at Erik. What remained of his face contorted in a hate-fueled snarl, blood dripped slowly from a shattered nose.

 

“Die.”

 

Pain, and a blur of blood and screaming.

* * *

 

 

Yenald ducked the sword, and parried the staff, thrusting out he caught the swordswoman unprepared, his fist connected with her gut, the blow sent the girl reeling. The Abhuman swung, with his back turned he instead twisted around, letting the staff slam into his side with a crack of pain he swung his fist and backhanded her across the face- unfortunately it wasn’t enough to break her neck but enough to send her flying. She landed among a rack of clothes; the display fell down over her.

 

The Swordswoman again- fierce and angry this time, she had a cut above her left eye that was bleeding badly- she swung, electric contrails following her weapon- Yenald braced and swung his staff up into its path- the two weapons collided-

 

The force of the blow rolled over him, a directionless pulse of energy, smashing into him without any sound, tearing away gravity- redirecting it- he flew.

 

He hit the street, rolling hard, picking himself back up in a matter of moments, he was on his feet, but his hands were empty, his staff, lying in the ruined clothing store- being stepped over by the sword wielding girl- he nearly let himself fall to rage. The Abhuman leapt out, ripping a shirt that had fallen across her and tossing it back into the store. She was glaring; it looked foreign on her face for some reason. “Give it up,” She shouted, “You lost your stick, and we’ve got you outnumbered-“

 

At this Yenald Interrupted, “A good warrior does not lament the loss of their weapon. In doing so they have gained two more.” He cracked his knuckles, each individual joint one at a time. He rolled his shoulders, taking the initiative and striding forwards to meet his foes. “Allow me to elucidate you to such a fact.”

 

The Suns’ Descendants was a reclusive chapter, but not by choice. Their home system was on the very edge of the galaxy. So secluded were they that the Astronomicon was only a nearly invisible glimmer to any Navigators who dared travel so far from its light. The Suns’ Descendants lived an isolated existence, protecting backwater worlds that were close enough for reliably safe and shallow-warp jumps; they had done so for nearly three millennia.

 

Their isolation from the wider imperium has resulted in many eccentricities, so much so that even a Space Wolf might raise an eyebrow at how far they had strayed from the Codex. Some of these eccentricities were of no fault of theirs; the six companies of marines armored only in scout carapace were one such example.

 

It was due in part to an unusually unstable gene-stock; one out of every hundred Descendants failed to develop any progenitor glands while one out of ten failed to develop a secondary. While this was dire, it was nowhere near as critical as the malformed black carapace that eight out of every ten brothers is cursed with. A Brother who has developed a full set of Progenitor Glands and Black Carapace was extremely rare, and marked out by the Chapters Apothecaries as a ‘Must Recover’ when they fall on the field of battle.

 

A Chapter Cult had formed around these six companies that then called themselves the Gatherings; they banded together over their faulty Gene-Seed, and trained together in ways to overcome their lack of Powered Armor. Stealth, swiftness, and secret killing arts known only to the Six Gatherings became their advantage.

 

Of these six Gatherings, there are Six Masters, taken by the Chapter Druids and sequestered away into the black forest of Caltoria to learn of the Reconcilers Fist: a mind-body martial art taught by the Braeg sages of the sacred forest. It was an art used not only to beat discipline into the firebrand Brothers who mourned the failure of their Black Carapace, but also to incapacitate and kill fully armored astartes grade opponents. Its secrets were closely guarded by the Braeg and only taught to those deemed worthy of the Sun Descendants- Captains, also known as Scout Masters.

 

Yenald was a Scout Master. Captain of the Fifth Company. Scout Master of The Second Gathering.

 

Yenald relaxed his muscles, the tension left him and he closes his eyes. The Gatherings Masters did not widely condone the use of this Xenos fighting technique, but turned a blind eye towards its practice in the heat of battle against opponents who would not yield to traditional methods.

 

Nothing about this fight was traditional, but there were few things that a Space Marine Captain could not handle alone.

* * *

 

 

Erik was the first to die; his chest came apart in an expulsion of gore as his Aura gave out under the sustained pummeling brought by the red and silver giant. A fist the size of his face broke through his flickering aura, and cratered into his chest. Leonard could _hear_ the Faunus boys’ organs liquefy under the force of the impact.

 

It had been a brutal uppercut, a gory flourish that drew attention to the brutal methodology of the Red Giant. Erik was still alive when he was lifted off the ground by the blow that would see him dead. Blood, and scraps of his lungs dribbled out of his mouth into open air. He reached the apex of his climb thirty feet straight up, and fell to the ground. The fall broke his neck.

 

Leonard let out a low whistle, the execution of his teammate had been… Excessive, to say the least, and now that he was gone, he realized that it might not go over well with the Chiki and Nicole. Especially Chiki. Thoughts for later, he told himself, Crimes was still held tight in one hand, locked into its melee configuration.

 

The giant stood amongst wreckage, heaving. His face was locked in a savage snarl that twisted into a grin that would be more at home on a serial killer after a fresh kill. He raises his fists at the sky and a roar ripped from his throat.

 

“Stupid, simple brute.” The man with the green eyes regarded the red giant, fingers playing idly along his weapon. The Giant must have heard him somehow, as he paused in his exultation to regard the man in a shared look of mutual disdain. The man barked something, a harsh language he had heard them speak before. The Giant rumbled, as close as he could come to a laugh.

 

“Sic’ing your dog on me, are you?” Leonard sneered, sweat dripped from his brow.

 

“No, quite the opposite.” The man drew stepped forwards; he pulled bastard offspring of a sword and knife from his belt. “You are mine alone, he will not interfere.”

…

The first to feel his fists was the Abhuman, he leapt forward, twisting around in mid air in a manner that should not have been possible, he landed nearly on top of her, his elbow cracking against her shield- she failed to see the real threat that was his leg sweeping her off her feet- a moment of shock was all he needed, she hit the ground and his knee thrust down into her, beating her shield, driving home into her gut- she shouted- that shout was then curtailed by a bloody spray of vomit that splattered across his face. Distasteful.

 

He rolled and brought up a fist in time to intercept the swordswoman, he caught her strike on the wrist- he felt the bones shift and break, the berserk woman howled, pushed through the pain, leaping back- wielding her sword with one hand, her off hand if he could tell correctly. It would be a pain to put this one down- the Abhuman writhed on the street, clutching her bruised guts, tears were streaming down the Swordswoman’s face. “Submit.” He stated. He ducked the swing that was her reply- his response was immediate, a kick faster than sound- shattering her kneecap, an open handed strike to her forehead. She went down.

 

Five seconds.

 

He let his eyes open.

* * *

 

 

The eyes of the giant were on them, on him, judging this fight. Leonard could feel his glare like a physical presence that wrapped around his every movement, Votar felt it similarly, but he did not let it distract him. His knife cut through the air, catching against Crimes and sparking golden embers. Leonard shouted, swinging with the other half of crimes, catching Votar across the chest, the insane sharpness mauling the heavy chest plates, tearing into them.

 

Votar didn’t pull back, he doubled down, snarling curses in High Gothic he punched with his free hand, driving it into Leonard’s Aura, forcing the gap between them closed, he punched again, and again, Leonard kept the blade locked with crimes, the other half hacked again, punching into Votars shoulder and severing a strap that held the carapace armor- the slab piece of reinforced Flak and Plasteel fell away, and Votar grunted in certain pain as Crimes buried into his chest.

 

‘It should have killed him’ Leonard told himself, but Votar was still moving, dropping his knife and latching both hands around his throat, Leonard funneled his aura in an effort to keep the Votar from crushing his windpipe even as he dug Crimes into the Votars chest. Crimes ground against something solid just beneath the surface, for a moment Leonard was stunned- thinking that Votar had a slab of steel underneath his skin.

 

“Marine, you have other talents.” Aranak shouted, his ire stirring against restlessness. “Use them.”

 

The Hunter ignored the shouting of the Giant, putting more strength into Crimes he dug it in deeper, he felt something crack in Votars’ chest and took it as a sign that he was close to hitting something vital. Votars grip around his throat slackened, Leonard let a sense of hope flutter in his chest.

 

“Forgive me… for using such…” The marine sputtered, resignation haunting his eyes. “Such an underhanded technique…”

 

And then he spit in Leonard’s face.

 

For a second the Hunter only registered shock, disgust, and annoyance. He didn’t let the phlegm bother him, it only furthered his anger, and he was going to make this degenerate pay for such an insult.

 

And then it started to **burn**.

 

It was like someone had spilled molten lead onto his face. He started to scream. He completely forgot about his quarry. He rolled off the man and clawed at his eyes, it was biting into his flesh, dissolving his features; the bastard had spit _acid_ on him! What monster was he, what were they, was that runt human? Were any of them human?

 

“Claim your kill, Marine, it was a worthy fight.”

 

He wasn’t done yet; he refused to go down like this- he understood why the man apologized. No one deserved to be brought low so underhandedly.

 

“A worthy fight with an ignoble ending.” A boot pinned him to the ground, driving the air out of his lungs. “It would have been better for me to lose than win so.”

 

“You were the victor, that is what matters.”

 

“Hold.” Yenald walked towards his fellow marines, he reached down and collected his staff and stalker bolter before dragging two shapes in each hand behind him just as Votar planted his knife against the back of the hunters’ head.

 

Yenald threw two young bodies onto the street before him. He cut the figure of every marine after an intense battle, armor broken in places, blood smeared across his features, a weary haze in his eyes. “We are due answers.” He gestured to the two girls before him, both squirming in pain from the beating delivered onto them. “They will provide.”

 

“You are far too soft,” Aranak commented, “You didn’t even break one of their fingers and they are disposed of.” He crossed his arms. “And to think you fought two of them, by yourself?”

 

“That one suffers intestinal bleeding.” Yenald replied; he glanced the ruined corpse behind the assault marine for a moment. “That one is in danger of hemorrhaging from a skull fracture.” He looked Aranak in the eye.

 

“So they do.” Aranak grunted, picking at bits of his ruined jaw. “Where do we now stand-“

 

“Enemies.” Votar announced. Yenald drew his Stalker, Aranak whirled, bolt pistol in hand.

 

Flitting through the rain- dancing about the tops of buildings in a dazzling array of colors with a riot of bizarre weaponry. The Astartes could count them, twenty hunters, moving like the wind, they held to the tops of the buildings, encircling them. They were not alone- the sound of steel smashing against stone from down the street, Votar shifted, hand on his knife he watched as silver machines turned into the facades of human form marched down the street in perfect formation, red visors glared out at them, modular compact rifles in their cold metal hands. Yenald instinctively turned to aim his Bolter at the two Girls.

 

“They have us surrounded, no viable break points. They’ll cover each other too swiftly.”

 

“I can see marksmen moving into position, the high tower to the north. Filthy cowards.”

 

“Melee infantry, rear. They will run us down.”

 

They made no effort to move, Yenald kept his Bolter trained on the girls, he could feel a snipers sights dial in on him. He followed that eerie sense of being watched to one of the closest buildings. He saw his executioner, a girl no older than fifteen with an oversized rifle, stock against her shoulder, sighting down the three barrels of her gun.

 

He could recall times when he blew holes in the head of chaos Demagogues about to sacrifice civilians and guard commanders. At the last moment they would look up and see him, crouched behind rubble, his bolter about to bark death. He could see their hate and their malice as they watched him pull the trigger, they could see his unsmiling satisfaction as the bolt erupted from the barrel of his weapon.

 

When she saw him stare at her, she flinched. This girl was no warrior.

 

Something like a plan began to formulate in the back of his mind.

 

“Brothers, hold.” Yenald snapped; he eased his weapon down slightly, its barrel turning away from the girls. He could feel the invisible crosshairs drop from his head by a fraction.

 

A choice had to be made.

 

Yenald looked at Aranak.

 

Aranak looked up, teeth bared, blood staining his armor, he kicked the mangled corpse away from him. One of the girls looked over and shrieked aloud. The Assault Marine was a ruin; his armor was chipped and blackened. Dried blood was plastered to his face. Flesh had been ripped from the right side of his cheek, exposing teeth and part of his jawbone. Part of his scalp had been scraped away. He had a bolt pistol with only a third of its last magazine left; his chainsword was buried under a collapsed building.

 

Yenald looked at Votar.

 

Votar paused, his knee still in the small of the Hunters back, knife blade jammed against the base of his skull, a single twist all he needed in order to execute the boy. The young scout was crippled, the weapon of the enemy had torn through his left calf and knee, the bleeding had stopped but his movement was severely impaired. His armor was for the most part shattered; he had discarded the more damaged carapace plates, leaving only the armaplas bracers on his forearms. His shotgun was out of ammunition; he was down to his combat knife. He appeared to be on the edge of exhaustion.

 

Yenald regarded himself.

 

His wounds had closed and there was no bleeding, but the damage from the chemical fire had left his torso a charred mess. His rib-plate had protected his vital organs but the pain was immense, he was certain it was cracked in several areas. His sparring with the two young girls had taken whatever reserves of strength he had left. His bodies natural reservoir of stimulants had run out and his muscles were sore, sweat ran down his face in small streams.

 

He had his Bolter, but he knew it to be less than effective against the strange psychic shield that these ‘Hunters’ could project. He didn’t even have many magazines, eighty-five shots left, two full clips and half of one currently in use, and he had his sacred stave. Their weapons though…

 

They had no uniformity, no singular style of fighting. They were adaptive, each one fought differently with different weapons. He couldn’t predict their movements. Close combat in light armor in his current condition… Would be sub-optimal…

 

He put his Bolter on the ground.

 

Aranak turned his attention to the Descendant. “What are you doing?” He asked; there was no heat in his voice. Yenald knew that the Assault marine was at the end of his endurance.

 

“If we fight. We will lose.” Yenald answered. “I doubt we could even kill five of them in our current state.” He nodded to the silver machine-men down the street and the cloaked form of Hunters on the rooftop.

 

Aranak opened his fists, and closed them. His prey’s blood leaked to the ground. He said nothing

 

“You know this?” Yenald looked at Aranak. He was expecting a rebuke, not silent confirmation.

 

“I acknowledge the only solid practical of the situation.”

 

“Can we fall back?” Votar asked.

 

“They would outpace us.” Aranak shook his head. “They move like Roc’s, and ranged fire would put both of you down in your current condition.”

 

“What options are left to us?” Votar looked to his captain. Yenald stared up at the roofs, the slender young frames surrounding them, and the heavier bulky machine-men that lined the streets, rifles out and trained on them.

 

“We can die. Or we can accept a parlay.” Yenald said.

 

Aranak listened; he idly thumbed the safety of his bolt pistol on and off.

 

“Death before dishonor.” Aranaks response was less than immediate.

 

“How then,” Votar spoke to Aranak, “would you take honor from dying like a dog. We’d be nothing more than a footnote in imperial history.”

 

“Not even that, none know we are here.”

 

“They know,” Yenald nodded at the forces, he took some satisfaction in how they stiffened. “They’d remember.”

 

“If you yield, you throw away everything we stand for.” Aranak cautioned. “You would be dead to Him.”

 

“It is not yielding.” Yenald snapped, an unfamiliar heat in his tone. “We know nothing of this world. We know nothing of where we are. This is reconnoitering.” He raised his hands.

 

Votar sheathed his knife and lets go of his shotgun. “Besides, who has ever heard of an Astartes being killed by children?” He stepped off of the boy.

 

“My ancestors would never forgive me. They won’t forgive me for what I am about to do.” Aranak traced the gouge in his face; it painted his expression in a permanent skeletal grin. “A Space Marine. Surrendering…” Aranak raised his hands; the movement was horribly foreign to him, and his armor seemed to actively resist.

 

“You mean, preforming a covert excursion into enemy territory.” Yenald queried, raising his hands no higher than his shoulders. “Yes, I believe the honored dead of the Griffons Rage would be adverse to that, all fire and brimstone your ilk are.”

 

Votar glanced at his Captain, a wane smile cracking into a grin. “Scout master, was that a joke?”

 

Aranak snorted, the closest thing to a laugh he possessed.

 

The Hunters dropped to the street, the machine men moved in.

 

**-END**

 

[The Future Holds]

 

_Yenald regarded the woman before him. The blond female mortal was a fierce specimen of human breeding. She reminded him of Aranak almost at once with the way she eyed him like a Champion Wych regarding her next kill, uncaring of the danger such a fight would impose, instead seeking only the thrill it would deliver._

 

_Yet, unlike a Wych, she was regarding him, not rushing headlong into a fight. Perhaps it was the blood on his hands, his stature, the broken and moaning bodies of the guards and shattered autonoma behind him as well. Yenald wiped his hands clean on the orange jumpsuit._

_“You intend to stop me?” He asked._

_“Nah, just break you.”_

_He looked away for only a fraction of a second._

_Yenald caught her punch before it had the chance to break his jaw. It instead only dislocated several of his fingers and shattered several bones in his hand. He brought his knee up, slamming it into the mortals gut with as much force he could muster. She flew back, blood spilling from her lips- a gagging sound erupting from her throat, she flipped mid air and landed on her feet, only stumbling one or two steps before fixing him with a near feral grin._

_Definitely like Aranak, he thought to himself._

_The glow she was giving off illuminated the hallway. Her eyes were once purple- like a noble Cadians –they were now red like warp spawn. He muttered the invocations of banishment to himself._

_She moved._

_She jumped, kicking off the wall and spinning mid-air, her back fist cut over his head and smashed through, bits of concrete and plaster cut into his back before Yenald had a chance to duck, he could only close his eyes and drop. The air shifted behind him and he rolled onto his back, the jab that would have fractured his skull caught air- and he caught her underneath the arm with his foot, a single quick kick and he could feel bones shift and pop out of place. He spun on his back, sweeping his leg around and bowling the girl over- she hit the ground and he was up, his leg coming down where her head would have been had she not rolled out of the way. Skipping back, that same smile curling her lips upwards._

_“Nice, very slick moves you’ve got,” She said, licking the blood from her lips, for a moment Yenald thought that she was perceiving this all as a sort of game. She wrenched her left arm back into place, the popping of bone-into-socket an all too familiar practice. “I’m done fuckin’ around with ya.” She growled, that halo of golden light rolled over her body like water; her eyes flashed a luminous red. Yenald swayed, falling back into a loose stance, the bones in his fractured hand had just finished knitting back together but still he could tell that this would end in more of them getting shattered._

_The bracer on her left wrist clicked, sliding down over her fist, stubby barrels protruded, something internal cycled into place._

_The Analytical part of his mind cursed hindsight, should have known that her gauntlet doubled as a ranged weapon of some sort- every Hunter so far had one._

_The Practical part of his mind only knew that this was going to hurt._


End file.
